


intertwined with you

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest Works [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fuck Or Die, Getting Together, Guilt, Hangover, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock is a Mess, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Smut, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25111873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: A drunken night after the events of Sherrinford leads to unforeseen consequences...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Series: Holmescest Works [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745683
Comments: 165
Kudos: 216





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



> Another plot that wouldn't leave me alone in the last week or so. *Shrugs* It is what it is.
> 
> For LadyGlinda who wanted a soulmate fic from me. Thanks for your endless support <3

The all-too-cheery rays of the rising sun shining through the window panes force Sherlock to blink blearily, exacerbating the dull throbbing ache in his head. His throat is dreadfully parched. He feels like death has warmed over him and that the mourners are stomping over his grave. 

The bed sheets are soft and luxuriously silky beneath his skin – rather like those of his own preference. 

However, this isn’t his bed. 

This isn’t his room. 

Oh fuck, where is he? 

He groans. Fucking hell. How much did he have to drink the night before? Sherlock had never been particularly good at holding his liquor; hence, it has never been his poison of choice for intoxication. He rubs at his poor aching forehead before he registers the sound of quiet snoring nearby. His blood turns into ice when he realizes that he isn’t the only person in this mysterious bed, and that he isn’t wearing a single stitch of clothing. 

He’s naked!

Fuck, what happened? And where did all his clothes go? He hasn’t slept naked since Serbia. He ponders, before slowly daring to take a peek at the other side of the king-sized bed. He ought to feel relief when he realizes that he is in Mycroft’s bed, but his lips seem to tingle in a queer sort of way – suggesting that something unconventional had happened last night. 

Oh god. 

He had kissed his brother. 

Jumping out of the bed in horror, he makes a run (quietly) for the adjoining loo to survey the damage. There is an obvious bruise on his neck (hickey?), a mess of… oh dear… they didn’t just kiss. Nope, of course, they had to go all the way to sex. Frottage probably. Sherlock highly doubted Mycroft would bottom for anyone, not with that – 

Ugh. Stop it. Stop thinking about that. Mycroft’s huge – Damn it! Sherlock turns on the tap, and slaps his face generously and repeatedly with cold water in a futile attempt to wake himself up further. To slap some sanity into this surreal situation. This doesn’t feel real at all. But then again, the events of the last twenty-four hours is enough to make anyone question their reality. Perhaps this is all just some sort of a never-ending nightmare that will come to an eventual end. He finds a spare toothbrush, towel and comb and proceeds to tidy himself up a bit before attempting the next logical step – fleeing. 

Actually, he should find his clothes first. 

When he is done, Mycroft is still sleeping like the dead – god he would be. Sherlock thinks miserably, his battered grey matter slowly managing to pick up the threads of the eventful yesterday. 

Sherrinford. A trap. The east wind. Ghastly games. Death. 

It’s not everyday where he finds himself pointing a gun to himself with the actual intent to fire it.  _ Or to get shit-faced drunk and have unbrotherly relations with his brother.  _ His brain reminds him helpfully as Sherlock finds his clothes scattered carelessly on the wooden floor along with Mycroft’s uncharacteristically rumpled clothing. The garments smelling pungently of expensive liquor. He finds one of Mycroft’s seldom-worn silken scarves in a wardrobe and uses it to hide the mark around his neck (Mycroft left a hickey!?!) before finally beating a hasty retreat out of the house. 

***

“Molly.” Sherlock had been of a mind to flee the other way when he had caught sight of the pathologist leaving 221B, but it had been too late – she had spotted him alighting from the black cab. 

When it rains, it  _ really  _ pours. 

Heavily.

He is in no shape or form to have this unpleasant conversation at this particular moment, if ever. Especially at this point in time! He had said ‘I love you’ to a girl who had been pining for him since well – he doesn’t even know. Since forever! He had slept with his brother! Shared orgasms with him! Lost his virginity! He had almost shot himself with a gun! John had almost drowned in a well! Barely bested a psychopathic little sister! Who had drowned his former best friend (not a dog) in the same goddamned well!

Half of his flat had been destroyed! 

All he had wanted to do now was to crawl into Mrs. Hudson’s spare bed and sleep off this damnable hangover. 

And forget about everything! 

What more could possibly happen on this blasted luckless day? 

Perhaps, he ought to have stayed in Mycroft’s bed, if he had known that this was the alternative waiting for him back here on Baker Street.

It doesn’t take a hungover genius to deduce why she is here though. Her brown eyes are shining with unreciprocated sentiment. She had done her makeup and had donned her finest outfit. A marked contrast to his dishevelled state of dress.

Damn his sister! 

“I was uh… looking for you.” Molly says shyly.

Sherlock decides to cut to the chase. There’s no point in prolonging this agony. He rasps. “Listen, Molly – yesterday was a mis –” 

“Sherlock –” Her voice is rising in volume. There is a flash of anger in her eyes. She takes a step forward while Sherlock takes an involuntary step back. Her eyes are fixated on something on his right wrist. “Don’t you dare say that – not when you have  _ that _ on your wrist!” 

“Have what on my –” 

Oh. 

Sherlock is dumbstruck by the silvery letter written in an elegant calligraphic script that had somehow appeared on the delicate skin of his inner wrist. A soulmark. How…? It hadn’t been there when he had been in Mycroft’s loo earlier. 

Not that he was looking for it! He certainly didn’t expect to get one from kissing and touching his brother! 

Soulmarks are private affairs, and if Sherlock had known about its existence, he would have promptly covered it with a wristband like every other sane person. Oh and at the minimum done up his unbuttoned sleeves properly. No one is really sure how and when soulmarks appear, although Sherlock is certain that the current literature supports the theory that a kiss of some sort between two compatible individuals is required.

What people fancifully call ‘true love’s first kiss’.

And as drunk off his arse he might have been last night, he is certain that he didn’t kiss Molly. 

Saying ‘I love you’ to someone isn’t enough.

“An ‘M’ for –” Molly begins to say.

An ‘M’... not for Molly.

But for… Mycroft.

But that calligraphy…? That’s not Mycroft’s usual handwriting… oh… but wait, it’s the fancy font he uses for formal documents and invitations. Sherlock has seen it a few times. 

Suddenly feeling very exposed, Sherlock clasps his left hand abruptly over his soulmark. 

No matter how imbecilic he believes the concept to be, it’s still  _ his  _ soulmark. 

“Not Molly.” He interjects firmly, knowing that if he doesn’t say it now – he might never get a chance to. He then adds in a kinder tone. “Look at your own wrists.”

Molly does so, and her face falls at their bareness. 

“Not for me.” Molly says dumbly. 

“No. I am so sorry, Molly.” Sherlock whispers. “Yesterday…”

“I don’t want to hear it, Sherlock.” Molly is at the verge of tears, and there is some part of him that feels sympathy for her deep down below. “You – you misled me. I was so happy yesterday. How could you?!” She then laughs bitterly. “Of course it was too good to be true. Of course the day you confess your love for me, you run into your soulmate! Goodbye, Sherlock.” 

Molly turns away abruptly – trying to hide her anguish. 

She heads down Baker Street in the wrong direction. The opposite direction of where her flat is located.

Sherlock sighs deeply before carefully removing his hand from the soulmark, checking to see if it is still there. 

It is. 

Good god. For better or for worse, he’s tied to Mycroft now. It’s irreversible. They would have to  _ consummate _ their bond in the next little while or they would both get terribly ill and possibly die. 

Presumably of heartsickness as the silly legends go.

If they are lucky, they have a week or two or more before the first symptoms occur. 

Fuck it all, why didn’t they actually fuck each other properly last night when they had both been conveniently plastered? Then they could at least have the option to live their lives normally and pretend nothing out of the ordinary had happened…

An unpleasant pang strikes his chest. 

Does he really want to ignore his soulmate for the rest of his life? The one that nature has deigned as his best possible match?

Brother or not? 

Feeling his headache intensify, he unlocks the door to 221B and walks inside.


	2. Chapter 2

A groan escapes Mycroft as he reluctantly opens his eyes, wincing at the ludicrously bright sunlight. Why did he not close the curtains yesterday? He rolls over slightly to take a glance at the analog clock, cursing the existence of alcohol. Bloody hell! He’s already overslept. Rubbing at his pounding forehead, he sighs as he forces himself to sit up. Sherrinford. God. What a horrific day yesterday had been! The image of Sherlock holding that damnable gun in his hand comes to the forefront, and he buries his face in his hands in abject dismay. 

Clever boy. Idiot boy. Where would Mycroft be right now if sister dear had let him squeeze the trigger? 

Shit. He better get going. He has security protocols to overhaul, personnel to be replaced and a ghastly meeting to discuss the events of yesterday. To talk about his failures. No amount of alcohol in the world could make him forget this! That he had done the unthinkable (the unforgivable!) and had been lulled into a state of complacency over their dear sister. That it had been his sheer arrogance that had almost killed little brother. And even his damnable doctor. 

Hell. 

Why is he naked? And why… is there a dried puddle of – what the fuck happened here last night? God. Why doesn’t he remember? This is a first. Even in his youth, he had never drank to this point of inebriation. Opting to use his powers of deduction, he surveys the rest of the bed. 

There are telltale signs that someone had slept with him last night. Whoever they are, they are no longer here – oh! Sherlock. Sherlock had been here last night. An hour after his detective inspector had popped by to check up on him. Mycroft had been disappointed that Sherlock had not come himself when Lestrade had initially shown up. But unsurprised. Considering that it is his failures that had led to those harrowing few hours at Sherrinford. Almost leading to the drowning of Sherlock’s nearest and dearest – Dr. Watson. 

Alas, Sherlock had shown up – looking wan and weary from the day’s events. They had talked. Drank some of his finest scotch. Well. A  _ lot  _ of his finest scotch. And then – oh – stumbled upstairs where they had kissed? 

Had sex? 

Yes? No? 

Oh dear. This is awkward. 

But that kiss… the ghost of it seems to linger around the sensory nerve endings of his lips. He can’t recall who had kissed who. But did that really matter? Maybe they had both leaned in at the same time, letting their lips inadvertently brush against the other. 

Perhaps. 

Fuck. They had gotten along so well otherwise last night, and he had to mess it up with some unbrotherly fumbling? 

He wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock, the virgin (well, not anymore!), never wanted to speak to him ever again. 

How many more ways must he fail his brother? 

Sighing in disappointment, he gets out of the bed and trudges off to the loo. The prospect of a better relationship with his brother appears to be dismal. There is no doubt that the days that follow will be filled with avoidance and awkwardness between them. 

At that moment, something silvery catches his attention – a ‘S’ shaped scrawl on his left wrist. 

Sherlock. 

This is Sherlock’s distinctive handwriting. 

His eyes widen in disbelief. 

It’s a soulmark. 

With a finger he idly traces the ‘S’. 

Damn. He thought he would have gone through life without acquiring one! Mummy and Father weren’t soulmates, but they had made their marriage work. And – now, Sherlock was irreversibly tied to him in this special way. In the most romantic of ways, according to popular opinion. Although, if he reflects upon it further, there’s nothing romantic about this situation at all. A drunken fumble that had led to a kiss and more. With a little brother who had never shown any interest in sex. Who would now be forced to consummate a soulbond under the pain of death. A little brother who would certainly prefer his former flatmate rather than his big brother for a lover...

There is a difference between want and need, and Mycroft would prefer that Sherlock would  _ want  _ him, rather than need him. 

But then again, hasn’t that been the theme of their adult lives? 

Perhaps… they would consummate the bond, and Sherlock would never want to see him again afterwards. In any capacity. Brotherly or otherwise. That has happened before between soulmates. A rare situation, but not unheard of. It would break his heart, but he would respect his brother’s wishes. 

With unhappiness, he steels himself for this surely difficult day.

***

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims while she surveys him critically, as Sherlock steps into her flat. “You are back!”

Her eyes linger at the scarf tied around his neck. The way she looks at him makes him feel as if she could see the ‘hickey’ hidden underneath the opaque material. Sherlock fights the blush that threatens to colour his cheeks. He wonders what deductions Mrs. Hudson is garnering from his unkempt appearance, although he did manage to do up one of the sleeves to cover his soulmark. How many times had he seen John do the ‘walk of shame’ over the years? And mocked him over it? Ah. 

God. He feels like a wreck. 

“You mind if I take a nap?” Sherlock asks, wanting to escape to her spare bedroom where he had left everything he could salvage from upstairs. And so that he could retain the iota of dignity he had left.

“Oh, my poor dear!” Mrs. Hudson tuts and shakes her head. She wrinkles her nose. “You need a shower! No offense, Sherlock – but you smell like a pub!” She then asks. “Did you run into Molly? She was just here – looking for you.”

“Did she… say anything to you?” Sherlock inquires.

“Just asked me if I’ve seen you. She seemed awfully excited for a Tuesday morning, I thought.”

Sherlock closes his eyes tightly, willing the pain in his head to go away. “My sister.” He begins slowly. “Told me that she was going to blow up Molly’s flat if I couldn’t make her say  _ ‘I love you’ _ by a certain amount of time… I was desperate, Mrs. Hudson. As much as I didn’t feel that way for her, she forced my hand. I had to say them to her. Those three words. And… she didn’t deserve to die…”

“Oh…  _ oh! _ She didn’t!” 

Sherlock rubs at his head, trying to look as miserable as possible. 

Mrs. Hudson makes a sympathetic sound and shoos him off in the direction of the loo. “Dearie, hop into the shower, and I will make you a nice breakfast for your hangover. Then you can go have a nap.”

***

Damn, he had forgotten his phone at Mycroft’s. Sherlock sighs as he adjusts the spray of water, turning it up as hot as he could bear. He would have to make do without. He’s too cowardly to go back. It had taken all of his courage to go see his brother yesterday – and look at what had happened! Mycroft probably doesn’t want to see him again. 

Ever. 

_ Is that true? _ A little voice in the back of his head brings up an objection.

It’s not a matter of want any more – it’s a matter of necessity. They need to fuck each other to live. Consummate. And to fuck, they would need to see each other in person at some point in the near future. They surely couldn’t fuck by text. Or rather sext. That wouldn’t cut it! And they would fuck, surely – Sherrinford had shown so plainly that Sherlock would sacrifice himself for his brother, and Mycroft would do the same for him. 

What’s a little sex compared to death!

If it hadn’t been for the soulmark, Sherlock is positive they would have spent the next few months (or years!) avoiding each other before going back at it like cats and dogs: the status quo of their adulthood. 

The memories of yesterday come unbidden into his mind. Convincing big brother to take them to Sherrinford, only to find that his sister had laid a most devastating trap for them. The death of the governor and his wife. Him taking that gun in his hand and pointing it at Mycroft, trying to buy them some time. He could still feel the weight of it in his hand. Mycroft trying to manipulate him into shooting him. Essentially goading him to do so. 

The fond sequence of looks they had shared, just before Mycroft had thought Sherlock would shoot him. Did big brother really believe that? Believe that Sherlock would have killed him at that very moment? The very thought depresses him. But then again, he had never given his brother any reason to think otherwise. He had always been thoughtless, rude and uncaring toward his brother. Shoving him against walls and twisting his arm. That hadn’t been the first time Sherlock had done that. Oh no. Stealing big brother’s laptop and drugging him so he could go after Magnussen. Playing that stupid clown prank. There had been better ways to go about everything. 

His offences are legion. 

And now, because of him, Mycroft is stuck with him. Stuck with him as a soulmate. 

He had felt unbelievably guilty last night while eating dinner with Mrs. Hudson. God, how could he? He had sent Lestrade to do his dirty work, when he should have gone himself. To mitigate his guilt, he had left for Mycroft’s straight after. Mycroft had been surprised to see him. Surprised that Sherlock had bothered with the doorbell instead of brashly breaking in as he always had done. Probably astonished that Sherlock even knew what a doorbell looked like, let alone its purpose. And how to use it!

They had shared pleasantries, and Mycroft had offered scotch. An expensive vintage of  _ Glenfiddich. _ They had drank. They had talked. What did they talk about? Oh. Yes. Those memories – those childhood memories that had become dislodged from the depths of Sherlock’s subconscious during the entire ordeal with the East Wind. Not the ghastly ones, but the nice ones that Sherlock had forgotten. Like the ones that Mycroft had been watching when John and he had ambushed him. Of beaches and ice cream. Of games of make-believe. Of Mycroft taking care of him when he had been ill. Just as he had always done. 

Duty. 

No. 

That’s not true. Sherlock is sure.

His brother cared for him. That is clear. Clear in the look that Mycroft had given him just as Mycroft had thought that this was it for him back in Sherrinford. 

The final message. 

Sherlock realizes. 

For him. 

He closes his eyes and allows the water to cascade over him. 

The memories continue to tumble forth.

They had reminisced about enjoying the night sky together in their youth with Father’s telescope, and Sherlock feels rather silly that he had deleted his knowledge on astronomy in response to their sister’s heinous acts of cruelty. 

His brother had been good company. They had laughed together. Mycroft had opened a second bottle – a fine Laphroaig. Sherlock could remember the heat in his cheeks, that all-too-comfortable tipsy feeling that had gradually taken over him with every tumblerful of drink he had indulged in. Mycroft had mentioned something about going to bed toward the end, and they had both somehow stumbled and helped each other to the stairs, up the stairs and into the bedroom. 

After that, the events were rather hazy. 

Ah joy. 

More forgotten memories. 

He couldn’t remember the kiss – they say that once you’ve kissed your soulmate, you would never forget it – but obviously he couldn’t conjure up the memory. 

So much for that!

He looks down at his soulmark. The ‘M’ in his brother’s exquisite penmanship. In a shiny shimmering silver. He finds it… rather beautiful. It would fade over time until they renew physical contact with each other. And the rest of the letters of the first name would be filled in when they get more tactile with each other, until  _ consummation _ which would make the mark permanent. This mechanism was useful for people who had slept with or kissed multiple partners over a short period of time to help narrow down who their true soulmate was. How many people had come to him for help in finding out the identities of their soulmates, just because they had kissed and/or made out with multiple people? Too many! 

Gods. He never thought that this would happen to him! People go all their lives without meeting their soulmate, and many people abandon the search at some point or another – happy to settle down with someone else. 

Although, later discoveries of one’s soulmate had broken apart many a relationship – namely because one should not be out kissing people who they weren’t together with in the first place. Even if a pair of soulmates did get together, it’s not a guarantee that they would last. It’s nature’s way of marking people who are the most compatible with each other, but the work of making a relationship function is still up to the individuals within it. Well, at least that is what the current working scientific theory postulated on the topic.

Siblings being soulmates is an incredibly rare phenomenon, and the only way for a pair of siblings to be romantically involved and married in a legal fashion in England. One does not argue against the Will of Nature. Not even the law.

Sighing again, he turns off the shower, having quickly washed his hair with Mrs. Hudson’s shampoo and conditioner and scrubbed himself off with her body wash. He now faintly smells of an old-fashioned herbal garden. All he’s missing is a herbal soother and a dab of her favourite perfume to really recreate her scent. He makes a mental note to go order his own preferred hair care products and everything else that he had lost in the explosion. 

Grabbing her spare towel, he dries himself off before putting on his clothes. 

***

Mrs. Hudson allows Sherlock to consume his breakfast in peace. Two pieces of toast slathered in avocado cream and topped off with a piece of havarti and a sunny-side up egg, a side of fried rashers and potatoes and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice make an adequate hangover cure. He bites with a relish into the toast and he feels just a little bit more alive with every subsequent munch. This is what a vampire must feel. Sherlock thinks amusedly. After drinking blood. 

Alive. 

There is an unexpected knock at the door. 

Not a client please! He isn’t ready to see anyone at this moment. 

Mrs. Hudson stands up from her armchair after putting her knitting aside. She opens the door to reveal...

Mycroft. Looking so perfect. In his three-piece suit. With nary a hair out of order. 

As if he hadn’t been drunk out of his mind and had sex with his little brother last night. 

“Mrs. Hudson.” Mycroft inclines his head politely, although Sherlock can see and hear a bit of the nervousness marring his brother’s otherwise cool demeanour. “Is Sherlock in?”

Before Mrs. Hudson could shoo him away, Sherlock is up on his feet. If big brother had made the effort to come all the way here to the proverbial lion’s den after the awkwardness of last night, then he could at the very least meet him at the bloody door. 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock nods politely, feeling unsure how to approach this situation. He could see the grey wristband tucked underneath the sleeve of Mycroft’s shirt peeking out from under his suit. “How… how are you doing?” 

God, why is this so awkward? 

“All things considered, I am alright, little brother.” Mycroft then produces Sherlock’s phone from one of his pockets. “You left something behind.” 

“Thank you.” Sherlock utters the seldom used syllables before tucking his phone into his shirt pocket and barely suppresses the gasp that threatens to leave him when Mycroft’s hand inadvertently brushes against his – sending a frisson up his upper extremity. 

His brother takes a step back. His face is unreadable. “You are welcome. I… uh. Have to go to work.” 

It’s strange to see Mycroft stumbling over his words. But, a welcome sight – Sherlock isn’t the only one feeling like he’s completely out to sea. 

“Yes, for Queen and Country, I know.” Sherlock says rather flippantly, although there is something warm in his tone that hadn’t been there the day before. Before Mycroft turns to leave, Sherlock calls out rather desperately – feeling this magnetic pull toward his brother. “Will I see you again? Today?” 

“If you want. We can discuss the pertinent details later over text.” The blues of Mycroft’s irises soften, and Sherlock finds himself smiling at his brother. “I will… I will see you later then.” Mycroft says, his voice unusually low and quiet. 

His brother then disappears behind the door. 

Leaving Sherlock with his thoughts and a Mrs. Hudson looking at him with absolute bewilderment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note that I haven't abandoned my old fics. This is a study month for me, so I don't have as much time to write, so during my breaks I just let the muse do whatever it wants as a break :) Things will return to normal in August, COVID willing.


	3. Chapter 3

“I thought you went to John’s yesterday!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims – no longer able to hold back her curiosity.

Sherlock pauses, his forkful of fried potato halfway to his mouth. Oh dear, did Mrs. Hudson really think that he got down and dirty and drunk with John yesterday? His free hand, of its own volition, reaches up to rub at his scarf-clad neck where Mycroft had left his mark earlier. 

“I don’t recall mentioning where I was going to go yesterday.” Sherlock sighs, figuring that he might as well tell her now. She is going to know the truth soon regardless. “I went to my brother’s. And we got drunk. Then we kissed. As it turns out… we are soulmates.” At the inquisitive look in her eyes, Sherlock says hastily, feeling an embarrassed warmth suffuse his sure-to-be pink cheeks. “No, we hadn’t done it yet.”

“Oh, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson looks positively giddy. “A soulmate! Ah…” 

She looks so wistful that Sherlock wonders if it had been the right thing to send her ex-husband to the electric chair all those years ago. How her eyes seem to sparkle! He could almost see her as the young lady she had been (as hard as that is to believe!) that had been radiantly (and blindly) in love. 

“I remember when I met Frank for the first time. So handsome! Tall, dark – an aura of something mysterious! Such delightful kisses! And the first one… I knew. I knew he was mine!” 

Sherlock suppresses a sigh, feeling regretful that he has absolutely no memory of this supposed metamorphic event in his life. Like he had been cheated of some valuable experience. But then again, if it hadn’t been for life’s universal solution for all problems, Mycroft and he wouldn’t be in this situation right now. 

“On the beaches of Miami! Oh. The sunsets. So much delight! Frank and I felt like we could do anything! Ah…” Mrs. Hudson trails off again. 

He wonders what is going through Mrs. Hudson’s head. That must have been before Frank had become a mob boss. A head of a violent cartel. Drugs. Weapons. Human trafficking. The works, basically. Before he had gotten physically and verbally abusive. 

“Such a shame. He got involved in the dope racket. He changed. Or perhaps… that part of him had always been there – lurking under the surface. Hidden under the sweetness of the soulmates’ bond.” She shakes her head, now looking her age. Shrugging, she then adds, “But – I’ve always had an eye for the bad boys…” 

“Mr. Chatterjee –” Sherlock begins. 

“Oh no – he’s a dear!” Mrs. Hudson is quick to defend. “An angel!”

He shakes his head. That man had at least three wives in two different countries and he is almost positive that he is an important part of an illicit smuggling ring. Her taste certainly runs true. But saying anything to Mrs. Hudson about it is like talking to a brick wall. 

Sentiment makes people insane. Irene had lost the game at the end because she had fallen for him. John hadn’t wanted anything to do with Mary’s past – even though it would have caught up with her eventually. If it wasn’t Magnussen, or if Norbury hadn’t killed her – it would have been someone else from her past. Sherlock sees that now. People like her seldom get to die of old age in bed surrounded by family. He had been an utter fool about John and Mary when he had returned from Serbia. But god, he had been so lonely after the Fall. So lost. He had been desperate to keep John in his life at any cost. Sentiment had made him mental too. And that hadn’t even been romantic love. 

But then – Mycroft… he can’t see his levelheaded brother losing his mind over sentiment. 

Mr. Caring is not an Advantage. 

Mr. All Hearts are Broken.

_ But that’s not true either isn’t it?  _ That little voice in his head is back. 

“Ah, Sherlock – you may behave like a rascal –”

Sherlock manages to look offended and his mouth falls open as Mrs. Hudson continues. “But, really, Sherlock – I can see that you like the good boys –”

Really? Sherlock hasn’t ever liked anyone like that! But then again, Mycroft had always been the epitome of ‘decent’ or at least when it came to him. Could he learn to like his brother – well – beyond what’s brotherly? Would Mycroft even want him to? Or are they just going to fuck and call it quits!?! What does he even bloody want? And Mrs. Hudson calling Mycroft a ‘good boy’? She had called him a reptile the last time they had met! Mycroft had mentioned it yesterday before they had gotten totally wasted. 

This proves it – the very idea of soulmates and love turns people into lunatics. 

“I thought… you didn’t like my brother.” Sherlock interjects. 

“I have to say that your brother approaches things in a thoroughly indecent manner at times, but I believe his heart is in the right place. And… he’s your soulmate! Oh – Sherlock, dearie – I am so happy for you!” She then sighs – her smile bittersweet; the smile of a mother whose only child is about to leave the nest. “I can see that I won’t have to worry about you any longer then, dear.” 

Is she not jumping to conclusions? There is no guarantee that anything is going to come out of this! Her’s might have been filled with passion and romantic nights out on the beach, but Sherlock’s – well, he can’t even imagine what had happened last night after they had gone into Mycroft’s bedroom! Everyone’s soulbond is different. Hell, Sherlock doesn’t even know what he wants out of this. Maybe a better relationship with his brother at the bare minimum? 

He had already started himself down on that path yesterday. Visiting his brother after their traumatizing ordeal. He had enjoyed his company, although he cannot say if he had enjoyed any of the unexpected activities that had happened afterward. He knows that he likes Mycroft as a person. And that his brother didn’t seem to hold last night’s shenanigans against him. Mycroft had braved the awkwardness and returned him his phone. Breaking the ice somewhat. 

That’s a start, isn’t it? 

“Oh Sherlock – always the skeptic.” Mrs. Hudson’s eyes seem to twinkle knowingly at him, having followed his train of thought. “Keep an open mind, dear – you might be surprised.” 

And with that ambiguous statement, Sherlock shovels the rest of his breakfast into his mouth and drains the glass of orange juice before leaving the table to prepare for his much-needed nap.

***

Sherlock wants to see him today. Mycroft tries not to be too happy about the new development as he fills out the paper form in front of him, taking a break from drafting protocols for Sherrinford. Little brother doesn’t seem to hate him for last night.  _ But what if he just wants to fuck and get this over with? So that they could go on with their lives. Separately. As they’ve always done. _ Mycroft frowns as he twirls his pen between his fingers. It would kill him to have to go back to the status quo. 

His phone buzzes, and he sees a warning from Anthea just as his office door is pushed unceremoniously open, revealing an unwanted visitor.

“Ah, Lady Smallwood.” Mycroft looks up politely.

“Hullo, Mycroft.” There is a disturbing but subtle purring quality to her voice. “As I told you before, please call me Alicia –” Her eyes grow wide when she realizes what kind of form Mycroft is filling out. 

“Yes, Lady Smallwood – it’s a soulmate discovery notice.” Mycroft says firmly – thanking all the deities that she had walked in when she did. Perhaps it will finally get her off his back. Maybe. Ever since Magnussen’s death, she has been persistent in her flirtations. Mycroft cannot afford to alienate her, he needs her help for the meeting that lies ahead. And for any other future situations that may arise. Obviously her gaydar is non-existent, or she is one of those delusional women that believe a gay man can be ‘fixed’ with a little heterosexual intercourse. “I found  _ him _ yesterday. After Sherrinford is dealt with, I am taking a week off to spend time with  _ my _ soulmate. Which as you know is a fundamental human right after discovery.” He keeps his voice casual. 

Mycroft tries not to think about what he would do instead if Sherlock had no desire to spend time with him after consummation. That will be a problem for later. 

It’s almost comical to see her slightly clenching her fingers, her artificially reddened lips pursed in displeasure. That she’s missed out on being Mycroft’s soulmate. 

“Is there anything that you wish to speak about in particular?” He asks, his voice as neutral as he can make it. There is still a lot of documentation that he needs to prepare.

She shakes her head. “No. I will see you at the meeting then. In a few.” Her lips twitch as if to say something further, but she decides against it. With a small sigh, she heads for the door – her heels clicking on the floor. When the door shuts, Mycroft’s phone vibrates again.

_ How are you holding up, brother? SH _

Ah. Sherlock. Mycroft finds himself smiling at the text. This is most certainly a treat. Seldom has his brother ever texted him with an ulterior motive in mind, rather than actually inquiring about his well being. It’s enough to make him temporarily forget about his duties. He types back readily.

_ Ask me after the meeting. I expect an evisceration. MH _

_ Surely it cannot be that bad. It wasn’t your fault! SH  _

_ I still have need of you, brother mine. SH _

Always need. Never want. 

Mycroft sighs. 

But… Sherlock forgives him. Or rather does not blame him for Sherrinford. Mycroft had started drinking before his little brother had made it to his house the previous evening. Drinking to assuage the guilt that had been threatening to tear him up into little pieces. He would have never forgiven himself if sister dear had done his brother further irreparable harm yesterday. And if Sherlock had died… best not to think of that. It was in this state of mind that Sherlock had found him. God. He had been a right mess yesterday. He remembers his brother’s hand touching against his wrist; his words surprisingly gentle and reassuring – words telling him that Eurus wasn’t his fault and that Mycroft didn’t need forgiveness, as there was nothing to forgive! Words that Mycroft hadn’t known that he had needed, even though the guilt still sits deeply within his gut. 

The care in his blue-green-grey eyes! 

He types – slower this time.

_ I was supposed to contain her. I was supposed to protect the British public from her psychopathy. The system had vested upon me great power and trust to protect the interests of Queen and Country, and I am afraid I failed greatly in this regard, little brother. There may be repercussions that could curtail my powers. MH _

_ No promises that I will return to you in the same condition that I had been in this morning. MH _

_ But, Sherlock. Lock. What hangs more heavily upon me is my failure to protect you. This isn’t the first time I’ve failed you. MH _

_ Mycroft. What’s important to me is that you did your best. And I haven’t gone out of my way to make your life any easier as my big brother. If you need my forgiveness, you have it. SH _

_ And I am not asking for much, Mycroft. Let’s have dinner? SH _

Damn. Is this the same little brother from two days before? It’s almost unbelievable: this turnaround. But then again, probably not. The events of Sherrinford have no doubt influenced everyone who had been fortuitous to survive and tell the tale. The memories of the past have been set free, and along with that – Sherlock’s emotionality which had been severely blunted after he had deleted his childhood memories. 

Is this the power of the soulmark? Mycroft wonders. Is Sherlock saying these things of his own volition? Vigorously, he shakes his head – no – Sherlock had been showing him that he had cared long before they had stumbled drunkenly up the stairs. 

Before that fateful kiss. 

Before they had been too inebriated to think coherently. 

To remember. 

_ Of course. I will meet you at Baker Street afterwards? MH _

_ Alright. I am going to go take a nap. SH _

_ I will see you after the meeting. MH  _

Feeling rather inane, he types. 

_ Sweet dreams. MH _

***

Sherlock stares at the screen of his phone. Sweet dreams, his brother had wished. Borderline sentimental. Or rather, it’s something his brother had said to him before he had fallen asleep when he had been little. Along with ‘Don’t let the bedbugs bite.’ and ‘Night night.’. 

It’s Mycroft trying to foster their brotherly relationship, Sherlock is sure. 

It’s not like he said ‘Dream of me.’. 

He stretches out on the spare bed (which is barely big enough for his long limbs). Big brother still feels guilty despite Sherlock’s reassurances from last night. It’s going to take time. Time to process the emotional turmoil of Sherrinford. Time to discern the nature of his relationship with Mycroft. He puts his phone on the nightstand and moves to his side, bringing Mrs. Hudson’s cozy blanket with him. 

Pulling off his wristband, he exposes his soulmark. The shimmering silver ‘M’ is already starting to fade leaving a feeling of emptiness in his chest. Using a finger, he idly traces the lines – vaguely remembering when Mycroft had been diligently practicing his calligraphy with a fine pen when he had been an adolescent in his room back at their parents’ house. Sherlock had tried copying the posh script when he had been a child, but he had no patience for such endeavours. Aside from learning how to forge his brother’s signature… 

Their parents. Damn. They should be told about their sister. Sherlock is certain. Maybe as Faith or some other identity, she might have done other things in the real world that neither of them are aware of, and someone could end up telling their parents about her existence. And… what would they say about this new development between Mycroft and himself? 

The only certainty Sherlock has is the salient and very sobering fact that they would need to fuck each other within the coming days. Fuck. Sherlock has no experiences in these matters aside from the drunken frottage of last night. Did that even count as losing his virginity? Is it too late to go get some experience so that he isn’t woefully underprepared? 

Ugh. People are gross and stupid. 

Best not. 

And what did Mycroft want? To consummate their soulbond and then continue as they are? A romantic relationship? Something casual? This is Mister Caring-Is-Not-An-Advantage after all. He still remembers that unfeeling Christmas conversation over Irene several years back. 

But then again there was that moment back at Sherrinford, where Mycroft had looked at him so fondly just before he had expected Sherlock to shoot him – willing to sacrifice his life so that Sherlock could live (supposedly happily-ever-after) with John. Ah John… Things are still complicated there… but it is nowhere as complicated and as pressing as his current situation with Mycroft. 

What would John think? 

So many questions and no answers! 

There is a knock at the door. Mrs. Hudson.

“Come in.” Sherlock calls out, and the door swings open. Mrs. Hudson walks in with a tray bearing a mug of tea. Earl Grey with a splash of honey and a dash of milk, just the way Sherlock likes it.

“Too nervous to sleep, dear? I thought so.” Mrs. Hudson tuts sympathetically at him as she puts down the tray next to Sherlock’s phone. 

“Something like that.” Sherlock sits up on the bed, reaching over for the mug – using the blanket as a drape to cover his hickey and soulmark. “I just… I just don’t know what to expect. This…” He scrunches his eyes, almost disbelieving what is about to come out of his mouth. “Isn’t my area. Sex.” 

“Oh Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson places a wrinkled but reassuring hand over his shoulder. “It will be alright. There is no need to overthink it.” 

“What if I am awful at it?” Sherlock feels absolutely absurd as the question/doubt slips out in an uncharacteristically small voice. “And if we can’t complete the bond, we could both… die!” 

He could imagine the two matching headstones (or would it be one?) bearing the epitaph  _ ‘Here lies the brothers Holmeses. Gone too soon due to incompetencies in the bedroom.’ _ in the idyllic family plot. 

He suppresses his wild desire to giggle. 

What would Moriarty think about this take on his lovely lines?  _ Here we are. The end of the line. Holmes killing Holmes. _

Probably get off on it. Get off on their inability to get it off with each other. 

_ This is where I get off. _ Moriarty had said afterwards.

Indeed. 

To survive all that nonsense to have it potentially end in the bedroom. 

Ridiculous.

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. “Sex, like everything else, Sherlock, requires practice. And you two have time. I am sure your brother will look after you, dearie. He does care about you in his own special way.” She then gives him a pat on the shoulder. “It will all be fine. Drink your tea, Sherlock and have your nap. Don’t worry your pretty little head over it.”

When she exits and closes the door behind her, Sherlock places his partially finished mug of tea down and snuggles back into the blankets. No, Mrs. Hudson is right, Mycroft wouldn’t let them fail barring an Act of God. 

All those woeful tales of soulmates who had found each other, only to have one of them struck by tragedy! Deaths, comas, paralysis – etc. Then there are the suicides (people who can’t stand their soulmate and kill themselves preemptively, dooming the other). Or soulmates who met each other abroad, have a one-night-stand and disappear back to their respective homes without sharing details. A common enough premise for the rom-coms that John likes to watch, but Sherlock knows more often than not that they end horrifically. 

This is in no way a perfect system by any means.

Oh, is this anxiety a symptom of an incomplete soulbond? 

Possible. 

He breathes both deeply and slowly – trying to calm himself before making another valiant attempt to drift off into sweet dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

“Mycroft.” 

It is an anxious-appearing Sherlock that greets Mycroft at the door. Freshly scrubbed, shaved and dressed in a blue shirt and a pair of trousers that Mycroft had bought him years ago. 

Sherlock quickly glances over at his brother, reading the tells of how his day had gone. The wrinkles in Mycroft’s suit, the troubled creases on his face and how his hair looks like he had dragged his fingers through one too many times suggest that it had gone awfully. A far cry from the perfection that had stood here earlier in the day. His brother wearily shrugs off his suit jacket, and Sherlock takes it. Happy to have a brainless distraction from the butterflies that had seemed to multiply with every hour that had seemed to pass. He hangs it up on Mrs. Hudson’s antique stand.

“Good Lord.” Mycroft stares in disbelief at Sherlock’s now scarfless neck. “Did I… really do that?” How primitive of him! He had noticed that his brother had filched one of his scarves this morning, but he hadn’t thought too much of it. There had been too many other things going on in his mind. The hickey is a shocking splash of purplish-red on his brother’s otherwise fair and unblemished skin – right over his left sternocleidomastoid. Undeniable evidence of what had happened last night. “I am –”

“Don’t apologize, brother. Even our brains get pickled in alcohol.” Sherlock remarks quickly, before he says rhetorically – changing the topic. “I guess we are staying in today?”

Gods. Mycroft had had sex with little brother yesterday. He had left a hickey on his neck like some sort of common creature! And… he rather likes how it looks on his brother’s  _ delectable _ neck! 

What kind of a big brother is he? 

_ But he’s your soulmate. _ Mycroft’s brain kindly reminds him. 

“I am sorry, Sherlock. I would have loved to take you somewhere nice, but I am just… too tired.” Mycroft replies with genuine regret. 

“I thought so.” Sherlock nods. He had foreseen this. “Your organs look intact though.” He observes with levity. 

“Maybe so.” Mycroft grins humourlessly. “It wasn’t a pleasant afternoon. But nothing unfixable. If anything, yesterday only reminded my colleagues of the constant vigilance required to keep sister dear in check.” He neglects to mention that he had convinced his equals that their sister was more useful to them alive than dead at the present moment. That the odds of her reoffending were minimal. That it was worth the expense, the time and the resources needed to keep her and the rest of the world safe and apart. This task is perhaps the worst duty of being his sister’s keeper. Mycroft then looks around cautiously. “Where’s Mrs. Hudson?”

“Gone to her sister’s for the night. I… I told her that we are unconsummated soulmates. I hope you don’t mind – she would have found out eventually anyways. I asked her to make us some dinner, since I figured you probably wouldn’t be up to much…” Sherlock proceeds to blush, realizing the implications of his words. 

“Sherlock, of course it’s okay.” Mycroft says quietly, allowing himself to be led to the dining table which had already been set. He’s surprised that Sherlock had told Mrs. Hudson about their situation. But glad. That means Sherlock isn’t planning to hide him like a sordid secret. It’s more than he could ever have hoped for. This would take some time getting used to, being able to be with Sherlock as a soulmate rather than a sibling. 

***

His brother is clearly beyond nervous. 

Mycroft isn’t quite sure how to put him at ease. Sherlock’s hands visibly shake as he brings dinner to the dining table, threatening to drop the aromatic French cuisine that Mrs. Hudson had generously prepared for them, although Mycroft isn’t sure if she’s poisoned any of it – considering that in their last encounter the landlady had declared him a reptile. 

It’s endearing. 

Surely, Sherlock isn’t expecting that they jump straight to penetrative sex with the intention of getting it over with as soon as possible? They have time to explore and get comfortable with each other before they take this particular step, especially when Mycroft has a week off as soon as the loose ends from Sherrinford are all tied up. Which should take no more than another day, really. Anthea will deal with everything else. 

They could even get away from London for a few days. 

“I think we ought to forgo the alcohol.” Sherlock frowns at the decent bottle of red in his hand. 

“That may be wise, little brother.” Mycroft examines the bowl of bourride (halibut, shrimp and aioli) that Sherlock had placed in front of him with a gastronome’s eye. “I do actually want to remember what happens after dinner.”  _ I want to remember everything that we do.  _ Sniffing at his spoonful of stew, he can discern that there’s a bit of white wine used in its preparation. 

“Do you?” Sherlock asks cautiously as he helps himself to a piece of freshly baked baguette and dips it into the hearty stew after he sits down. “Really?”

“Of course.” Mycroft finally ingests his mouthful of stew. It’s quite tasty. Certainly not poisoned. But then again, Mrs. Hudson loves Sherlock. She wouldn’t send him to an early grave. “Don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Sherlock nods, finishing his piece of baguette. “I was realizing that I didn’t even remember our first kiss… when it’s described as –”

“The ultimate experience of one’s life?” Mycroft shakes his head with regret. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t recollect our first kiss either. There’s not much I remember after we went upstairs to bed. I didn’t even realized we had done anything until I saw the –”

“Semen and sperm on your abdomen?” Sherlock finishes his sentence with an amused twinkle in his eye. “I was rather mortified when I woke up…”

“You’ve never had sex before…” 

“You were right when you said it at Buckingham –”

“Oh, Sherlock – I didn’t know for certain. I should apologize for that – there’s nothing wrong with being a virgin, little brother. And I am also sorry that you don’t remember the first time you shared pleasure with another.” 

Sherlock smiles wryly as he pops a shrimp between his delectable lips. “On the contrary, brother – if it were not for the alcohol, nothing probably would have happened. We would have slept in separate rooms, as planned. Would have been a rather tame and boring evening otherwise.”

Mycroft picks up a fork and spears a piece of braised squash topped with onions and bits of bacon. He quirks an eyebrow. “And god forbid, we can’t have that.”

“No.” Sherlock’s lips twitch. “It is what it is. I guess we won’t consummate today…”

“No, Lock. I am too tired, and you are nowhere ready for that –”

“Please don’t treat me like a delicate virgin –”

“Brother, I want you to enjoy whatever it is that we do. It’s not a duty, it’s meant to be something fun, as daunting as it may seem to you. Sex is meant to be enjoyable.”

“Fun…? We could die!” Sherlock exclaims – finally betraying all the anxiety that clearly had been building up over the course of the day. Looking slightly sheepish, Sherlock then murmurs quietly. “What if I can’t…”

“Sherlock, come here.” Mycroft pats the cushioned seat of the empty chair next to him. Of course the thought had crossed his mind once or twice, but he knows that out of the two of them, he should remain calm. After all his own personal failures toward Sherlock, he should at the very least guide them through this unexpected twist in their life. As the more experienced out of the two.

Sherlock eyes the indicated chair with all the anxiety of a trapped wild animal. He swallows before finally moving. It’s ridiculous. He knows that he is making an utter fool out of himself in front of Mycroft. How could it be that he has no qualms about sacrificing his life so that Mycroft and John could live while the idea of life-or-death sex has brought him to his knees? He sits down next to his brother, who is the picture of calm and collected despite his exhaustion. 

“May I?” Mycroft slowly reaches over for Sherlock’s right wrist. 

Sherlock nods. He is rather taken aback by the care that softens Mycroft’s features as he inquires for Sherlock’s limb. In the past, his brother would have probably taken it without a word, and Sherlock would have snatched it back in petulance. He scrunches his eyes when his brother’s fingers touch his skin, trying not to gasp at the pleasant warmth that the contact brings. 

“Is my touch really that horrific?” Mycroft asks with a trace of amusement.

Sherlock shakes his head with more aggression than it warrants. 

“Brother mine, relax.” 

The fingers lightly caress his skin, and Sherlock finds himself taking measured breaths. He’s not used to people touching him, and somehow there’s a part of him that is shying away from showing Mycroft exactly how his touch actually makes him feel. Vulnerability. Maybe they should have had some alcohol, because Sherlock is feeling the farthest thing from relaxed. Or perhaps, it is the old antagonistic habits. Of not wanting to give Mycroft any more ammunition to use against him. Oh god, if he’s already so on edge just because Mycroft is touching his hand – how on earth is he ever going to manage sex in a sober state? He highly doubted Mycroft would want to shag him when he’s high or drunk out of his mind. Under the threat of imminent death or not. 

“Sherlock. Look at me.” Mycroft requests. There is something in his voice that Sherlock can’t quite make out. He finds himself looking up into Mycroft’s blue eyes, and his brother says. “It’s okay, you know. I won’t bite.”

“But you can.” Sherlock murmurs. 

Mycroft bares his teeth comically, and Sherlock finds himself involuntarily smiling. His brother then states. “You’ve forgiven me – yesterday – for my mistakes.” 

“Yes. Not that there is anything to forgive.” Sherlock mumbles. 

Picking his words carefully, Mycroft says. “Forgiveness is one thing. But… do you trust me, brother? I know you’ve been hurt before by people that you’ve cared dearly about –”

Sherlock knows he’s being silly. Anxiety is making him behave like a scared little virgin. His brother had been willing to die for him yesterday. At the end of the day, he had always known he could put his trust in Mycroft in the things that truly mattered. Even during that whole ordeal with Magnussen, there was no way Mycroft would have let him die… though he was sure Mycroft had truly been furious at him and had decided to let him suffer a bit. His left hand carefully unrolls the right sleeve of his shirt, and he tugs the wristband off his wrist, revealing the fading soulmark. His trust in his brother. 

The barest wisps of silver strands remain, and it saddens him. 

“Oh.” Mycroft draws breath sharply upon seeing the soulmark. 

“Mycroft.”

Sherlock climbs onto his brother’s lap and wraps his arms around him, inhaling the mixture of cologne, dinner and Mycroft’s intrinsic earthy scent from his neck. It feels perfect when Mycroft’s long arms envelop his thin and lanky frame in a hug. Like Mycroft’s arms had been made to hold him. He sighs in pleasure when one of Mycroft’s hands slides up his back and tenderly combs through his curls. 

Sherlock actually purrs as Mycroft gently strokes his scalp. Not quite the purr of a domestic cat, not quite the low-frequency chuffing (prusten) of the wild big cats – but somewhere in between. But then again, Mycroft had done this before to a younger Sherlock – and he had responded like this – becoming calm, relaxed and pliant under his touch. 

“Mm… don’t stop.” Sherlock grumbles when Mycroft’s fingers still for a moment.

“I’m not. Just wondering…” Mycroft continues his caresses.

“Wondering what?” Sherlock wonders, curling tighter against Mycroft. 

“When was the last time anyone touched you like this…? You were a rather affectionate child and enjoyed being petted.” 

Sherlock doesn’t respond right away. But he does a minute or so later, his words pensive. “I don’t know. I can’t remember. I ‘deleted’ so many parts of myself over the years, big brother. Yesterday dislodged a good chunk of memory from the metaphorical bins – but I am sure there are some that haven’t surfaced yet, or may never will.” 

Mycroft closes his eyes. God. How he despises their sister! Does she understand how much damage and suffering she had caused her brother over the years? At some theoretical level perhaps, but she definitely understands things like jealousy, possessiveness and knowing how to fake feelings to get whatever it is she needed. Although, at the end – yesterday – she had let them all go scot free after Sherlock had shown her a wee bit of undeserved compassion… His brother leans into his touch, and Mycroft wonders if Sherlock knows how touch-starved he actually is. Probably not. He won’t let her harm Sherlock ever again, that’s for certain. 

He reaches for Sherlock’s wrist again with his free hand, and his brother lets him have it. The faintly shimmering ‘M’ is written in his most elegant script. He traces the lines with a finger, and he can feel Sherlock shiver against him. Curiously, he lifts the wrist higher, and brushes his lips against the soulmark. Sherlock looks up at him wide-eyed and trembling (not with the old anxiety, but of vulnerability and possible pleasure). 

The soulmark pulsates, the silver strands appearing to come to life (like an organic entity) and intensify against his alabaster skin. He had seen the way Sherlock had looked at his soulmark earlier – seeming to be lamenting over its gradual disappearance against his skin. When Mycroft finally stops, the soulmark becomes still once more – but brighter than what it had been originally. 

Intriguing. The nature of soulmarks. 

“Can I see yours?” Sherlock asks a moment later.

“Of course.” 

Mycroft feels bereft when Sherlock returns back to the chair next to him, presumably to give him space to roll up his own sleeve. He can hear the scraping of a fork as Sherlock ingests some of the honey-glazed roast pork with apples. They hadn’t even finished their dinner yet. He removes the wristband, and sees the faded ‘S’ against his fair skin. Like Sherlock, he had taken off his wristband periodically throughout the day, just simply to examine the soulmark, and feeling an unfamiliar hollowness grow deep within him as the mark lost its lustre throughout the day. 

Creating a sense of longing for his other half. 

“Damn, brother – I get your fancy writing and you get my chicken scratch.” Sherlock turns his attention from the food to the soulmark. 

“Not everyone requires the same things, little brother.” Mycroft muses. He infinitely prefers having Sherlock’s hastily scrawled ‘S’ on his skin than his own rather grandiose ‘M’. 

“Perhaps.” Sherlock leans over to trace the ‘S’ on Mycroft’s wrist.

A cozy sort of warmth seems to perfuse his body when Sherlock touches his soulmark. God. It feels good. 

“Do you ever wonder why soulmarks are always on opposite wrists between soulmates?” Sherlock inquires. 

Mycroft turns his hand slightly and his fingers easily intertwine with Sherlock’s long masculine digits. He had never contemplated such questions in his life, but now that he has a soulmate of his own – the answer is frightfully simple. He almost gasps when Sherlock twists his forearm a bit, bringing their soulmarks together. 

“Maybe that’s why couples started holding hands.” Sherlock remarks a moment later. “During the primitive days. Pleasurable incentives.” 

“The hedonistic principle.”

“Effective, nonetheless – of getting two people together.” Sherlock migrates back onto Mycroft’s lap, not letting his hand slip from Mycroft’s fingers. “I wonder what happens if we kiss?” Sherlock asks, ever the inquisitive scientist. 

“Good things, I hope?” Mycroft manages to ask before plush lips come into contact with his own.

Gods. The pleasure almost makes Mycroft’s toes curl. He plunges his free hand into Sherlock’s curls, using his hair to guide the kiss. It’s sweet and comforting all at once and he can feel the long workday fade away from his body and even his soul. It feels right; as if it is something that Mycroft had been meant to be doing with his life, unlike all of his other duties. They kiss and kiss, just simply enjoying the shape, the feel of each other’s lips – not bothering to deepen it at any point. 

Sherlock is panting slightly when they break apart – looking somewhat dazed and incredibly adorable. Mycroft brings their linked hands upward, noticing that the soulmarks had become more luminous with the kiss. 

“Kissing brings them life.” Sherlock observes.

As does fucking. But Mycroft wisely keeps his mouth shut. It’s too soon. It’s enough of a victory for tonight that he had gotten Sherlock accustomed to being touched and caressed by him. They snog some more, until Mycroft brings up the idea of leaving London for a bit. 

“You would really take time off for this?” Sherlock sounds surprised.

“Of course. It’s a fundamental human right to get time off to bond, brother mine. And to be honest, I need the time off…” 

***

During the kissing, there had been something boyish and playful about Mycroft that had seemed to emerge, but when the conversation turned back to Mycroft’s job – Sherlock could see Mycroft instantly look his age and the exhaustion that had been writ all over his face when he had entered Mrs. Hudson’s flat had returned. Damn. Sherrinford had really taken a toll on his brother. Well, Sherlock had known that since yesterday, but he could see that Mycroft needed to get away from work before it killed him literally. It’s strange, Sherlock had always viewed his brother as a perfect functioning entity when it came to his duties, but he can see that it isn’t true. Mycroft isn’t a machine. Not anymore than he is. 

Sherlock lightly presses his palm against his brother’s stubbly cheek, and gently traces the curve of his jaw. It’s nice to have this kind of freedom to explore Mycroft’s body in this way – it certainly is better than the things he had used to do. He remembers vaguely pushing his brother against a wall and twisting his arm a while back, and Mycroft doing nothing to defend himself. He feels a deep remorse, and he lets his cheek brush against Mycroft’s. He ought to do better by his brother. Look after him as he had always looked after Sherlock. 

They nuzzle each other before their lips find each other again, and they snog a bit more. 

“I was thinking that we could leave London. Maybe for a night, or two, or three.” Mycroft says much later. 

“Maybe somewhere cooling? There’s a heatwave coming – or that’s what Mrs. Hudson says.” Sherlock remarks. “Even though it’s almost October.” 

“Ah, weather. Perhaps the Lake District? Or the coast?” Mycroft offers.

“Anywhere. But you do know that I get tetchy in the heat.”

“Ok, somewhere where there’s a body of cool water to throw you in when you get too annoying. Got it.” Mycroft gives him a teasing smile.

Sherlock glares at him. 

Yet there is something comforting in the fact that they are still themselves.

***

Sherlock sighs, letting his fingertips trace his own kiss-swollen lips. Mycroft had just left and he wonders if he should have gone with him. The spare bed here could barely contain him, let alone the two of them. There was Mrs. Hudson’s bed, but even he has limits. But Mycroft hadn’t offered, so perhaps it might be wise to let this develop naturally. His body tingles pleasantly – he could feel all the places that Mycroft had caressed and touched. He liked being touched. By Mycroft that is. It had effectively shut down his otherwise hyperactive brain. God. Mycroft had done that for him when he had been a child, when things just… got too much. 

Besides, Mycroft had talked about leaving London. About taking time off from his Very Important Job. Of course Sherlock knows about the week that everyone is entitled to take off when they meet their soulmate, but not everyone takes it. This must mean something to him. Sherlock deduces, or is big brother just too tired from dealing with everything? And oh god, their parents. Sherlock had offered to be there when Mycroft breaks the news to them about their long-lost daughter tomorrow. 

Fuck. A sense of dread rises within him. What if Mycroft doesn’t want to touch him after they have penetrative intercourse? Or kiss him? Suddenly the prospect of sealing the bond as soon as possible didn’t sit well with Sherlock. No, he agrees with what Mycroft had said earlier – that they should take their time. And Sherlock should show him that he could be a good soulmate.

He changes out of his clothes into a pair of silky pyjamas – preparing for bed. There is something new on his wrist – Sherlock realizes. A silvery ‘y’ had joined the ‘M’. ‘My’. It proclaims elegantly. Sherlock traces the letters, stroking the skin with a reverence. And he gasps when the letters appear to blur, dissolve and swirl, turning into a serpentine coil with legs – a tiny elegant oriental dragon seems to shimmer and waver – blowing a puff of air (smoke?) out of its nostrils before turning to look at him directly with its startlingly expressive eyes. And at once, the creature spirals and liquifies reforming the stagnant ‘My’ that had been inscribed on his wrist earlier. 

What the heck was that? 

Sherlock had never read about this phenomenon before. What are soulmarks? Are they separate entities from their humans? Parasites? Symbiotes? Or… is it part of Mycroft? And that Mycroft’s mark is a part of him? Everyone’s soulbond is different – Sherlock had read, so is this something intrinsic to them? 

Shaking his head, for there’s no way he can obtain the answers he wanted at this moment, he slips into the spare bed.


	5. Chapter 5

Speechless, John gawks at Sherlock when he enters Mrs. Hudson’s flat the next morning. 

“Hello to you too.” Sherlock rolls his eyes at his ex-flatmate after the silence has gone on for too long. 

There is something tentative about John’s voice. As if he couldn’t believe what his eyes were telling him. “Sherlock. Is… that… a hickey on your neck?” 

“Well, you are the physician, why don’t you tell me?” Sherlock replies irritably. Is he not allowed to walk around with marks of affection from somebody on his person? Plus it was too bloody warm in the flat to continue wearing a scarf. Mrs. Hudson’s prophesied heat wave appears to be arriving, and Sherlock already dreads it. 

He reminisces briefly over how shocked Mycroft had looked when he had realized what he had done to his neck. And then, later on in the evening – big brother had kissed the abused flesh in apology and may have left it in a worse state than it had been before.

“I leave you alone for one day and you –”

“Found my soulmate, yes.” Sherlock interjects hastily – finding it a good opening as any. 

Now, John’s eyes are as wide as saucers. His eyes drift over to Sherlock’s wrists, finally noticing the grey band poking out of his right sleeve. “Oh my god! Was your sister right? Was it Molly?” 

“Women are not my area, John. And… I don’t think she will ever speak to me again…” Sherlock shakes his head. “She saw my soulmark before I did.” He will never understand how Molly had thought that elegant ‘M’ had been for her. She had stereotypical doctorly handwriting that was barely legible. Better than John’s but still. Sherlock is still irked that Molly had seen his soulmark first before he had even known about its existence. “She thought it was for her.” 

John makes a sympathetic noise, before he inquires curiously. “Was it Greg? Anderson? Gregson? Oh… wait Molly thought it was for her? Someone whose name starts with an ‘M’... Is it someone that you’ve just met?” 

“Yeah.” Sherlock gives a non-committal nod, not feeling like he needs to share so much information so soon. He’s still trying to process everything himself. Besides, it certainly feels like he’s meeting someone new. He’s never given Mycroft a chance during their respective adulthoods, and now they are learning about each other just like any other pair of soulmates. 

“Oh bollocks – it’s not Moriarty, I hope?” John gives him a nervous look.

“No, our dearly departed Jim is safely buried under my old tombstone.” Sherlock is terribly amused. 

Hm… Jimmy as a potential paramour? What a thought experiment! It sounds like a total disaster. A fun one, but a disaster nonetheless. Like the story of his young adulthood. The type of relationship where one ends up standing on a roof of a hospital with a gun aimed at their own head. Oh wait, that actually happened!

There is something to be said about reliability though. Sherlock thinks he’s at a stage in his life to appreciate such a word. And Mycroft was as reliable as they come… not to mention tall, dressed deliciously in bespoke suits and a huge – god, is all what he remembers from that fateful drunken night in the bedroom the sight of his brother’s appendage?  _ It is a rather nice co –  _ a voice in his head seems to affirm, and Sherlock quickly tunes it out. 

“Sherlock!”

“What?” Sherlock blinks.

John says with exasperation. “You just zoned out for several minutes.” His former flatmate’s face then turns amused and even sympathetic. “Oh my god – you’ve really got it bad, haven’t you?” 

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” Sherlock states haughtily, trying to look as if he wasn’t thinking about –  _ stop it! _

“No, you’ve definitely got it bad. I never thought I would see the day! Ah! Fine. Keep your secret.” John winks at him. “I will find out sooner or later.”

“Right.” Sherlock nods.

“So… how did you meet him? Your soulmate! You are so lucky!” John’s eyes look wistful. “And… how was ‘true love’s first kiss’? Is it everything they said it would be? Fireworks? Trumpets!”

“I got drunk.” Sherlock offers. “The night we returned from Sherrinford.”

“Blast it! The one night I am not here, and you go out to the pub! I would have paid to go! What does he look like? Is he tall, dark and handsome?” 

Sherlock sighs. Leave it to John to jump to conclusions. He tires of the questions. Tall, dark and handsome?!? He’s never evaluated Mycroft based on those parameters, but – oh god, yes he is. “Of course.” 

“Mm… someone that you find handsome! I want to see who this man is! And – you don’t find him boring?”

“John, I can assure you that my soulmate will never bore me.” 

John quirks an inquisitive eyebrow, but a timely knock at the door saves Sherlock from John’s further curiosity. 

“I guess I am getting the door?” John muses, while Sherlock simply doesn’t move a muscle. Seeing Sherlock’s inertia, the former flatmate reaches for the door with a predictable sigh, admitting their first client for the day. 

***

Shit. Bloody hell! Sherlock can’t believe this. He’s running late. He had even set a bloody alarm to remind him, but it had gone off unnoticed. As the cabbie drives (fast, for Sherlock had promised him a generous tip), he pulls his wristband off. The lustre had worn off considerably from last night  _ –  _ the dullness of the silver seeming to highlight his predicament. Mycroft. He thinks miserably.  _ I am sorry. _ His fingers lightly brush the soulmark, and a strange tingle travels up his skin. Then the letters seem to flip, and the little dragon was back. Lying prostrate. The scales dull. Its tiny head looks slowly up at him; its eyes inquisitive and sad, as if to say _ Where are you?. _

Mycroft.  _ I am coming. _ Sherlock on a whim lets his fingers gently touch the dragon’s head. The dragon seems to fondly bat at Sherlock’s fingers before finally dissolving again into the ‘My’, the silver fainter than it had been moments ago. 

Damn. His soulmark seems to be  _ alive. _

A complex and sentient creature. 

How could he? Sherlock sighs – leaving his brother to face their parents alone. And if this soulmark was connected to Mycroft at all, it seems that Mycroft is not faring very well. He slides the band back around his wrist.

It is with desperation that he jumps out of the black cab when it finally stops. He slams the door behind him after flinging bills of random denominations at the cabbie and runs into Whitehall, ignoring the questioning and startled stares of its solemn and starched denizens. 

The bloody case had taken a lot longer than he had expected it to take. Helping a desperate lawyer who was already showing signs of emaciation and shortness of breath find his soulmate. Literally suffocating for love. Or rather, his soulmate. Ironically, as it had turned out, he had almost drowned two weeks prior to today and a lifeguard had given him CPR and some breaths (mouth-to-mouth) and he had gotten his ‘true love’s kiss’ in that (un)romantic fashion before being shipped off to the hospital. Sherlock would deem it romantic. More romantic than their first kiss at least. Their ‘kisses’ had been doing something useful, such as saving his client’s life. 

It had been a shame that the young man hadn’t remembered this momentous event until they had spent two hours meticulously combing through every aspect of his life. Granted, he had been unconscious during most of the incident. And then, they had to make phone calls and go through emergency records and lifeguarding schedules to trace back who had done the CPR on that fateful day. Fortunately John had found the equally suffering lady just as Sherlock had realized he was going to be late for the family meeting – and left the client and his friend with only a cryptic “I need to be somewhere.” before dashing off. 

Anthea looks up at him as he bursts into the office. There’s a fierce look of displeasure in her eyes.  _ ‘You’re late.’ _ They seem to say. Oh dear. He’s definitely off to a bad start. Almost breaking his promise to his brother. 

“But I am here!” He gasps, almost as breathless as the client he had been with earlier. 

Anthea tuts, but she gestures to Mycroft’s office door, and Sherlock – after reading another warning look from her countenance:  _ Don’t fuck this up. _ – stands up straight and strides toward the door. 

***

“Then you should have done better.”

Mycroft cannot remember ever feeling so low in his life as his furious (well, they had a right to be!) parents chastise him about his dear sister. It’s always amazing how interactions with one’s parents immediately seem to take one back to one’s childhood, although he doesn’t recall ever being scolded like this. He had always behaved himself, although he had taken the fall willingly for certain things that Sherlock had done in his youth. But Sherlock – where was he? His hand reaches for his wristband – trying to derive some comfort from the soulmark. 

The door flies open – bringing the tongue-lashing from Mummy to a halt. There is Sherlock – looking as serious as he’s ever done. His curls in abject (but delightful) disarray. His face flushed, as if he had run all the way here from Baker Street. 

“There was a case.” Sherlock explains somewhat breathlessly. 

“Sherlock, dear – your brother just told us that your sister isn’t dead!” Mummy exclaims. “He kept it all from us! How could he? My darling girl! All alone in that cell. For years! Without us!”

“Mycroft had his reasons.” Sherlock says quietly, his eyes daring to meet Mycroft’s blue ones. There’s no disappointment in them, only relief.  _ I am glad you came, brother mine.  _

_ I am sorry. _ Sherlock tries to convey back. His brother turns his head slightly.  _ It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you are here. _

“It’s unacceptable.” Mummy says with her arms crossed. “There must have been another alternative. Eurus has had time to grow and mature – I am sure –”

“Mummy.” Sherlock interjects sharply. He draws a breath, and before Mummy could fill the space with more words, Sherlock continues in a quiet voice that is borderline lethal; one that would brook no arguments to the contrary. “He did his best… I know you are angry – Mummy, Father – but I won’t allow you to say another negative word against Mycroft. Because the crux of the matter is that recently several innocent people have died aside from Victor – and if it wasn’t for Mycroft – more people would have died, and –” Sherlock’s words are so quiet now that everyone in the room has to strain to hear them. “Mycroft’s equals and the Prime Minister would be calling for her head despite capital punishment being outlawed for decades.” 

Their parents look as if someone had slapped them – Sherlock’s words had taken all the wind out of Mummy’s sails, and Father had fallen into a contemplative silence. Mycroft finds himself staring at his brother in awe. Leave it to Sherlock to lay out the cruel hard facts. The facts that Mycroft could never dare bring voice to in front of their family. And, hell – he had never mentioned anything about justifying their sister’s existence to his colleagues to Sherlock – but of course little brother had deduced correctly. 

Mycroft sighs, it had taken all his energy to prepare for that meeting. He had laid out new detailed plans to revamp Sherrinford’s security measures, a succinct description of all the terror threats and global happenings that Eurus had managed to decipher and provide timely information for the MI6 to neutralize and take advantage of over the years and the unlikelihood of her embarking on another murderous spree (with corroborating evidence from some highly respected shrinks working for the MI5 and MI6). Being his sister’s advocate and keeper over the past years ever since Uncle Rudy’s retirement has been an incredibly thankless job. And one that had taken a lot out of him throughout the years. He hadn’t realized how much – until now. It’s certainly aged him. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in. Perhaps we ought to discuss our sister another day.” Sherlock says levelly, as he looks at Mycroft with concern.  _ Perhaps, I said too much? _

Mycroft shakes his head slowly.  _ No, you said what ought to have been said. _

An awkward silence descends upon the room.

“You are right, Sherlock. Perhaps – we are better off going home and digesting the information.” Father finally speaks. 

“Oh, Sherlock. Darling.” Mummy envelops a reluctant Sherlock into a tight hug before continuing to say. “You were always the grown-up. Ah. My darling girl – alive all this time!” And then she grabs Sherlock’s hand and squeals in astonishment. “Sherlock! When did you get a soulmark?” 

“Yesterday.” Sherlock turns to look at Mycroft – his eyes shining, radiating fondness. 

It takes Mycroft’s breath away. That Sherlock could look at him like this after years of resentment and bickering. 

Oh good god, he isn’t!?! Mycroft realizes that Sherlock had escaped from Mummy’s clutches and had been migrating towards him. 

Sherlock smirks mischievously at him.  _ Oh yes. _

“You should bring her around, dear – oh, to think of it! My boy has a soulmate –”

“Of course I will, Mummy.” Sherlock has gone behind Mycroft’s desk. “You will find  _ her  _ an absolute delight!”

The mirth in Sherlock’s eyes is contagious. The blues in his irises almost seem to dance. His brother holds out his hand, Mycroft takes it with his own soulmarked hand. The pleasure of holding Sherlock’s hand washes over him as he stands up. Just as he catches Mummy noticing his own wristband, Sherlock turns to grab his tie with his free hand, guiding him to an affectionate kiss – letting their lips brush together tenderly as they had practiced the evening before, finally shocking their parents into utter silence.


	6. Chapter 6

It is Sherlock who reluctantly breaks the kiss. Blinking away the bliss that the moment had temporarily brought him, he surveys his parents – both wide-eyed and their mouths practically agape at the final surprise that the meeting had brought. Before Mummy could recover her wits or her powers of speech, Sherlock hastily grabs for his parents’ hands and walks them out of Mycroft’s office. Giving his brother a much needed breather to recover. Sherlock hasn’t held either of his parents’ hands in ages, and he hadn’t realized how wrinkled that they’ve become over the years. 

Fragile. 

Anthea gives him a questioning look when he catches her eye, but she doesn’t say anything. 

“Sherlock. Is this a joke?” Mummy finally manages, stopping midway between the door and Anthea’s desk. 

“Nope.” Sherlock says quietly and with all the frankness he could muster. “It’s… very real. Mycroft and I. Do you really think Mycroft would let me kiss him like that as a joke? Without a fuss?”

He could see Mummy processing this in her mind. Her forehead furrows, deepening the preexisting creases. Sherlock could sense the disappointment. The disappointment that their branch of the Holmesian family line would probably end with Mycroft and himself. The lack of grandchildren in her future. The odds hadn’t been brilliant to begin with. Mycroft, Sherlock had known for a long time now, is gay. He himself – might have labeled himself as an asexual before the fateful kiss. But now, with this new data, Sherlock is certain he’s a demisexual. A Holmes-sexual? No. Mycroft-sexual. And with their jobs? Very unlikely that either of them would have ever wanted children. He brightens. Ah. They could get a pet. A dog. A cat. A snake. Or even a parrot. A pirate of the seven seas should have a parrot. His child-self would greatly approve. Besides, he already has Rosie. His face then falls. Would Mycroft want to share his life with him after everything is done and dusted? 

“No, you are right, dear.” Mummy slowly reaches for his non-soulmarked hand. “I am sorry, Sherlock. It’s just… as you said. A lot to take in. Eurus being alive. The… things she’s done.” She sighs, looking so impossibly old. “A mother… always wants to believe the best in her children, regardless of what they’ve done. And… you two. Soulmates. Perhaps…” She gives Sherlock a sad little smile. 

“Perhaps what?” Sherlock is afraid to ask. 

“Mycroft and you. You two were so close. Before everything happened all those years ago.” Mummy suddenly looks pained. “If there was something else I grieved for besides your sister’s passing, it was the change in your relationship with your brother. Neither of you were truly happy in the years afterwards. Perhaps, this is the way the Universe is making amends.” 

It’s Sherlock’s turn to be speechless. Mummy gives his wrist a pet. “We best be off, Sherlock. Tell Mycroft that I am sorry. It was all an unexpected shock, and I rather took it out on him before you came along to defend him.” She smiles at that. “Look after him then, Sherlock.”

It takes Sherlock a few moments to find his words. So taken aback as he was by Mummy’s acceptance of their soulbond.  _ Look after him?  _ Mycroft. He will try. He has to. And it’s not just because his life is on the line. “I will do my best.” He reaches for his soulmark, pressing his palm fondly against the wristband. 

“Take care, then. Darlings.” With that, and an incline of the head from Father, both his parents disappear behind the door. 

***

Mycroft permits his shoulders to slump forward when the door closes behind Sherlock and his parents. Propping his elbows against the surface of his desk, he allows his forehead to rest against his hands. Letting the exhaustion (of the years?) crash over him like a tsunami. There’s still work to do. There always is. He shakes his head. Even he knows he cannot keep carrying on like this, slaving away his life for Queen and Country. 

It’s funny. He reflects. How little sister had shaped the trajectories of his and Sherlock’s lives. Mycroft had carved this niche for himself in the government, initially out of necessity – to continue Uncle Rudy’s job as their sister’s keeper. The guardian of the East Wind. He had been good at it.. well until now. 

He sighs deeply while scrolling through his to-do-list. The toil never ends. His fingers twitch for a cigarette, but best not. Sherlock isn’t smoking at the moment, and he doesn’t want to jeopardize that. 

Much to his surprise, the door to his office opens again, revealing his brother. Mycroft looks at him properly for the first time today, rather enjoying the view. Tight aubergine shirt. Sleeves rolled up. His hair somehow even messier than when he had walked in here earlier. 

Hands rest upon Mycroft’s shoulders, squeezing ever so lightly – gently beginning to massage the sore tense muscles that have had to carry too many burdens for too long. 

“I thought that you had gone.” Mycroft remarks quietly. 

“No, I just wanted to make sure Mummy and Father were safely away, brother.” Sherlock then adds. “Mummy thought at first that our kiss was a joke, actually.” 

“The price you pay for being –”

“Thoroughly unreliable?” Sherlock completes knowingly. “God, brother – I didn’t mean to come so late.”

For the sake of his shirt and waistcoat, Mycroft ought to tell Sherlock to stop massaging him, but little brother is surprisingly good at this. Sherlock’s clever digits unerringly find all the knots, and work on them with a surprising amount of patience. It makes Mycroft want to melt into his chair and not want to do anything for the rest of the day. 

“I am not surprised.” Mycroft says. The probability of Sherlock and he being soulmates is so infinitesimally small – Mummy no doubt ran all the calculations in her head. 

“She wasn’t happy at first. Initially.” Sherlock continues. “The lack of grandchildren –”

“I don’t think there would have been grandchildren either way, unless there's something you aren’t telling me, brother mine.” 

“No such secrets, big brother. You know that. I thought I was asexual for the longest time. She apologizes by the way. For giving you a hard time. Of course, she should have said that to you directly, but it’s better than nothing.” Sherlock murmurs, just as Mycroft gasps when Sherlock starts working on a particularly awful knot. He changes the topic. “You work too hard, My. We should get out of here. Enjoy the sunlight before it gets too hot in the coming days. Go to a nice café –”

“Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” Mycroft almost moans at whatever Sherlock is doing to his back, managing to stifle such an embarrassing noise. And gods, Sherlock had managed to wrangle an apology from Mummy? 

“Very funny.” Sherlock then says seriously. “I am doing something I should have done ages ago.”

“Oh?” 

“Making your life easier, for one.” Sherlock explains. “I learned my skills from this little old wizened Thai lady I met in Chiang Rai when I was away. You will be surprised, brother mine, about what you can accomplish with a good massage. Garner information. Change a client’s mood. Manipulate their behaviour for the next few hours with a few choice moves and words. Lull someone into a stupor. Incapacitate a target. Relieve Mrs. Hudson’s nasty tension headaches. I am sure that is why she still keeps me around.” He chuckles lightly. “Come, Mycroft – let’s go. The day is still young.”

“I still have –” Mycroft begins to object, obviously not relaxed enough from Sherlock’s ministrations.

“I talked to Anthea. She will deal with it –”

“You two are already plotting against my back –”

“For your own good.” Sherlock pats his shoulder. “There’s nothing on your schedule that exceeds Anthea’s capabilities.” 

“There is very little that does not exceed her capabilities.” 

Sherlock grins. “I won’t argue with that. She does manage your life. That must be a momentous task of itself.”

Mycroft narrows his eyes suspiciously at his brother. “Are you saying that  _ I _ am difficult?”

Sherlock gives him a cheeky little grin, before swooping down to peck at his temple. “It does take one to know one.”

“Oh – Lock.” Mycroft reaches up before Sherlock could stand up straight again to grab a fistful of his curls, bringing his head down so that they could kiss. Properly. 

Never has he found impertinence so bloody attractive. 

***

This is surreal. Beyond even Mycroft’s wild imaginings. 

To be sitting in a quiet board game café with Sherlock at this late hour. 

Sharing a basket of perfectly fried fish & chips, a plateful of brussel sprouts marinated in a delightfully spicy Sichuan sauce and glasses of freshly squeezed juice. Pineapple for Sherlock. Orange for him. It appears that their shenanigans post-Sherrinford had cured them of any desire to touch a drop of any alcoholic beverage. 

Sherlock slides a block off the colourful tower that stands in front of them. After having been thoroughly trounced at Scrabble, Sherlock had opted for something that required a little less brain. “Spin around ten times fast.” He reads off the block. 

Mycroft shakes his head with mild amusement when Sherlock stands up from the bench, gingerly placing his red block on top of the tower and proceeds to spin around ten times with no qualms about who may be watching him in their cozy little corner. 

Sherlock sits back down rather shakily and nudges him. “Your turn.” 

This is inane. Is Sherlock punishing him for beating him fair and square earlier? Releasing an indulgent sigh, he reaches over to grab a brick. “Remove an item of clothing.” The block proclaims. 

He proceeds to loosen his tie without an ounce of hesitation. 

“That’s too easy. And boring!” Sherlock complains, helping himself to a chip. 

“I am doing as directed, little brother.” Mycroft slips the tie off, preserving the full-Windsor knot and immediately lassos it around little brother’s neck.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock protests – squirming just a tad as Mycroft tightens the knot a bit, letting the tie sit neatly around the open collar of Sherlock’s shirt. 

“That way we won’t forget it when we leave. And it won’t get dirty.” 

“Hmph.” Sherlock hates wearing ties. Hate is probably an understatement. But, somehow – knowing that this particular tie had been worn by his brother all day long seems to make it bearable. He lets his fingers stroke the soft silky fabric. And Mycroft seems to like it, judging by the appreciative side-eye that is being employed. The image of Sherlock wearing his tie. It’s certainly not a stylish combination – probably more of an eyesore. Shrugging, Sherlock reaches for another block after Mycroft places his own on top of the tower. “Sit in the lap of the person to your right.”

Sherlock waggles his eyebrow in an exaggeratedly flirtatious matter, and Mycroft sighs as he allows his brother to sit in his lap. This night only gets more unreal. 

“I like this game.” Sherlock murmurs as Mycroft’s arms surround him. 

“Even if you are wearing my tie?” 

“That wasn’t part of the game.” Sherlock nuzzles his face against Mycroft’s neck – taking the time to inhale his scent. He then says. “I can afford to indulge your whims now and then.”

“Mm… generous of you.” Mycroft reaches over for another block. “Kiss a person next to you… Now I am beginning to think that you picked this game to –”

“Make out.” Sherlock smiles unrepentantly. “You caught me.”

“In public.” Mycroft states, surprised. But there is no reason why they couldn’t, aside from being naturally reserved individuals. As of yesterday, when their soulmarks had appeared on their wrists – all the laws regarding incest which had pertained to them had been conveniently defenestrated. “Didn’t think you would be the type for public displays of affection, Lock.” 

“There’s lots of things you don’t know about me despite your years of close surveillance through London’s CCTV network, Mycroft. Now – hurry up and kiss me.”

Good Lord. He definitely looks forward to learning everything there is to learn about Lock. There hasn’t been a fount of knowledge that he had been so eager to acquire for a long while now. 

Mycroft leans forward to capture his brother’s plush lips, slipping his fingers into his brother’s delightful curls which beg to be messed with. The block never specified how many kisses, but it didn’t really matter. Mycroft had lost count at some point – finding himself ridiculously happy that Sherlock seemed to want to explore the physicality of their relationship as much as he did. Aside from the bare minimum. And if he’s lucky, Sherlock would want to continue the tactile part of their relationship after they bond. Shaking away the thought – figuring that it was better to savour every moment as it came, Mycroft dedicates himself wholeheartedly to the task of snogging his little brother senseless. 

***

“Does this count as a date, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks – daring to test the waters when they had walked back to Baker Street, shivering just a bit as the midnight wind blows. 

“It depends on what you define what a date is.” Mycroft says cautiously. 

Sherlock words his answer with equal care. “Where two people go out and have fun. With the prospect for… more.” 

“More, hm.” Mycroft is pensive. How much more? He wonders. How far is Sherlock willing to go? He doesn’t want little brother to give more than he is willing to give. He settles for “I certainly had fun.”. It certainly seemed safe enough.

Sherlock can only stare, watching the almost full light of the moon shine down upon his brother.  _ Sans  _ tie. His shirt and waistcoat rumpled from snogging. Looking ever so handsome. His usually neat hair both wind and Sherlock-swept. He looks impossibly human like this. Sherlock’s heart swells with an uncharacteristic fondness that it isn’t used to feeling. Hints of words that Sherlock isn’t ready to contemplate dance at the periphery of his mind. “So did I.” He offers his brother a smile.

Mycroft returns it, looking surprisingly boyish. “I guess… it is a date. So. Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Weren’t we planning to leave?”

His brother nods. “I will come get you after I finish my duties for the day.” 

“Can’t wait.” Sherlock impulsively hugs his brother – extending his neck a bit to meet Mycroft’s lips. He doesn’t even know where they are going tomorrow, but it really doesn’t matter. 

“Mm… neither can I. But, alas – brother mine, patience is bitter, but its fruit is ever so sweet.” Mycroft kisses him again. It’s almost ridiculous, how much the want between them seems to linger in the air. Magic of the soulmark? Or reality? “Tomorrow.” Mycroft reiterates firmly, the word laden with promise. He lets his hand linger over Sherlock’s chest, and just as his ride back home pulls up to the kerb – Mycroft lets his fingers affectionately caress the tie that is still knotted around Sherlock’s neck. His digits linger on the silk, his eyes unfathomable with something that seems to compound the sensation multifold in Sherlock’s chest. It is with reluctance that Mycroft lets go of the fabric before entering the Jaguar.

“Tomorrow.” Sherlock finds himself saying dazedly to no one in particular as the car drives off. Or rather, today. Slipping off his wristband, he looks at the ‘Myc’ that now seems to glow in the darkness of the London streets. Feeling rather inane, he presses the soulmarked flesh against his lips – and he could almost swear that he had felt the sensation of Mycroft’s against his own.


	7. Chapter 7

“Ah, Dr. Watson. Is Sherlock in?” Mycroft inquires when the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat swings open, revealing his brother’s ex-flatmate. Mixed feelings abound within Mycroft when it comes to Dr. Watson. The man who had beaten up his brother. And… not just once. This had also been the man who had tried to interfere at Sherrinford when Mycroft had been trying to convince Sherlock to shoot him. Regardless of the balance on the ledger, Sherlock obstinately insists on retaining the man’s friendship, so Mycroft would have to respect that. 

Dr. Watson wipes at the copious amount of sweat on his brow with the back of his hand. Unlike Mycroft’s comfortably cool office back in Whitehall where he had just been at earlier, there is no air-conditioning of any sort to be had here. 

“Hullo, Mycroft. He is. But… he’s not exactly in a brilliant mood. Nor do I think you have long to talk to him – he did mention something about leaving with his soulmate later. For a trip somewhere. Oh!” At Mycroft’s surprised look, Dr. Watson remarks. “He didn’t tell you that, didn’t he? That he has a soulmate?” 

Sherlock didn’t tell Dr. Watson about the identity of his soulmate. The fact gnaws uncomfortably at the pit of Mycroft’s stomach, while he answers – continuing whatever this charade is. “No, I don’t believe he told me. Regardless, I do have something important to discuss with him.” 

“I will go see if he will bite.” Dr. Watson replies doubtfully before disappearing into the depths of the flat.

Mycroft sighs, feeling his mood deteriorate in the suffocating heat. 

Wasn’t it just yesterday that they had been roaming the streets of London under the clear moonlit skies? Where neither had wanted to go home? Sharing kisses of all sorts without a care in the world? 

He pulls at the sleeve of his shirt, where he had hidden his wristband. Stepping back out into the hallway, he tugs the band off, revealing the ‘She’ shimmering on his wrist. He idly brushes a fingertip against the soulmark, and he almost gasps when he watches the letters liquefy. The silvery medium seems to pulsate like a heart, before turning into a creature of some sort. 

Long body, four limbs, scales – lying prone. A dragon. A very lethargic looking one, as if it was wilting from the heat. 

Curiously, Mycroft pokes at the little dragon’s head, which immediately turns to look at him – somehow bearing a rather classic expression of Sherlockian annoyance. The tiniest disdainful puff of smoke escapes its nostrils. The resemblance is uncanny. 

It makes Mycroft want to giggle.

Good Lord! What is a soulmark? It seems to be… alive? A representation of his other half? Or is it actually part of Sherlock? Perhaps – when soulmates kiss, a part of the soul slips into their other half and makes a home there? The idea fills him with an intriguing sort of joy. Being able to carry around a part of Sherlock wherever he goes. 

He shakes his head. Look at him, indulging in flights of fancy as such! 

“Come on, Lock.” Mycroft whispers to the creature. “The sooner you come out, the sooner I can throw you into a cold body of water.” 

The creature gazes at him again with unreadable eyes before dissolving back into the three soul letters that had originally inked his wrist. 

Just as Mycroft slips the wristband back on, and puts his sleeve back to rights, his brother emerges – his curls a disaster. Sherlock had clearly been sulking all day, although he had made an effort to get dressed. Rather hastily, it seems. White shirt. A pair of trousers. He’s holding something in one hand. Mycroft’s tie. His eyes seem to brighten somewhat when he catches sight of him. 

“Is that all you are bringing?” Mycroft inquires – suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. This doesn’t surprise him at all. He had anticipated this and had asked Anthea to prepare a suitcase of new clothing and other necessary supplies for his brother. But then again, Sherlock probably had lost much of his belongings in the explosion. He holds his hand out expecting Sherlock to hand over the tie. 

“I have my phone. And charger.” Sherlock pats his shirt pocket. He doesn’t relinquish the tie. “What else do I need? Oh.” Little brother darts the two steps to the flat door and hollers. “John, I am going to leave. Don’t expect me back until next week! Laterz!” Sherlock then grabs Mycroft’s still outstretched hand, brings him in for a quick kiss and winks. “I think I have everything now. Let’s go.” 

Before Dr. Watson could reply back, Sherlock had already pulled a bemused Mycroft out through the building door and into the sweltering heat. Sherlock lets out a sigh of abject relief when the cool air inside of the air-conditioned Jaguar blows over him. 

***

It’s unusual to see Mycroft in the driver’s seat of the car. His brother had taken off his waistcoat and tie; his bared forearms resting lightly over the wheel. Hell. Sherlock hadn’t even known that Mycroft owned a car – but at the same time, the interior of the car seems a little too impersonal. Too sterile. Ah. This is a government car that Mycroft had procured for his personal use. 

Mm… and Mycroft had nice forearms – maybe he had added weights to his workout regimen recently. When did he start noticing things like that? Sherlock turns his head away to focus on the view whizzing by outside as Mycroft takes the M6 toward Lancaster. The Lake District it is then. It’s going to be a long ride. Sherlock sighs as he slumps down into his leather chair – but it is certainly better than melting in Mrs. Hudson’s flat – listening to the percussive noises of the construction going on upstairs. His fingers lightly stroke the tie that he had brought along with him. 

His brother chuckles suddenly and Sherlock looks sharply at him.  _ What’s so funny? _

“You.” Mycroft promptly replies. 

“Me? I haven’t done anything!” 

“It’s okay to look, you know. There’s no need to be shy.” Mycroft could sense the blush that colours Sherlock’s cheeks. It’s highly flattering that Sherlock seems to enjoy looking at him. 

“Wasn’t looking.” Sherlock mumbles somewhat pettishly. 

“Right.” Mycroft finds himself smiling, wondering what a petulant dragon-y soulmark would look like on his wrist. 

Sherlock grumbles. It’s not his fault that big brother goes around in his three-piece suits – all covered up – like a lady of the olden days. Where any exposure of skin is an erotic event. This is madness… why is he all of a sudden shy again? He had looked at Mycroft plenty yesterday. Touched him plenty too. 

A phone rings. Without a hitch, Sherlock grabs it from the centre console. It’s his.

“It’s Mummy.” Sherlock states. He hangs up, and she promptly calls again. 

“Better pick it up, brother mine. You know how persistent she is. Besides, you don’t want her badgering you later on in the day, don’t you?” 

Mycroft has a point. Sherlock reluctantly slides his fingertip across the screen to accept the call and puts it on speaker. 

“Mummy.” 

“Sherlock! Only on the second call too! Being soulbound suits you! How are you doing, dear?”

Sherlock can hear Mycroft attempt to hide a snort of amusement. 

“Surviving.”

“Ah, darling – you never did like the heat! Anyways, I just wanted to ask – when are the nuptials?” 

Sherlock’s stunned fingers drop the phone onto his lap. 

Mycroft fights the urge to giggle nervously. Just yesterday Mummy had been wondering if their soulbond was a joke, and now… she’s really looking for the silver linings. If she cannot have grandchildren, why not have a wedding? 

Damn. She moves fast. 

“You two  _ are  _ getting married, right? You wouldn’t deprive your dear Mummy of this particular joy in life, wouldn’t you Sherlock? And – Myc, dear – I know you are there. No need to contain yourself.”

It takes quite a while before either of them could find any sort of word. 

“Mummy, we just found out we were soulmates two days ago – can we please have a little time to sort things out between ourselves?” Mycroft asks patiently.

“I promise we won’t elope at the local Register’s Office.” Sherlock offers dryly.

“Sherlock! Don’t you two dare! Oh, just wait until I tell your Auntie Josephine! Ah! And where would we hold the ceremony!? Clevedon Hall would be beautiful. Oh, but it’s autumn – a barn venue would be lovely at this time of year – Quantock Lakes? Mycroft! What about Buckingham Palace? Surely you could call for a few favours…?” 

“Mummy, please. Give us some time.” Mycroft finds himself pleading rather helplessly. Their relationship really does not need this sort of pressure. “You will be the first to know, I promise.” 

“Oh, my dears! Of course – you two should enjoy this special time together. The first honeymoon they call it!” 

Mycroft can only imagine the blush that must be fiercely staining Sherlock’s cheeks as Mummy releases a wistful sigh. 

“I guess I will let you two get on then. I apologize for disturbing the both of you during this precious time. Ta, my darlings.” 

When Mummy finally hangs up, it’s really as if a bomb had exploded in the car. Mummy isn’t sorry at all for this phone call. Oh no, the cunning woman only wants to plant seeds. 

“Perhaps… I shouldn’t have picked that up.” Sherlock shakes his head and gingerly places his phone back in the console with all the delicacy of handling a land mine. 

“She would have gotten to us one way or the other.”

“It’s not too late to drive back to Heathrow and buy a pair of plane tickets to leave the country.” Sherlock muses. “Hell am I letting her plan any wedding of mine.”

Oh. Mummy’s gotten them good. Mycroft has to admit. This is exactly what she would have hoped for. “So, you intend to get married, brother mine?” He asks nonchalantly.

“That’s not what I said.”

“But you wouldn’t be opposed.”

“I don’t know, Mycroft – it’s too soon.”

“I know, Lock – don’t worry – we have all the time to figure everything out. Don’t let Mummy pressure you into doing anything you don’t want.” 

“I know. I don’t even know…” Sherlock says quietly – more to himself than Mycroft. “What you want.”

“I want you to be happy.” And it’s true. It’s all what Mycroft had ever wanted for his brother. A goal that has at times seemed impossible. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

And what does he want? Sherlock sighs, turning back to the tinted window, watching the countryside zoom by. Things used to be simpler before. He had wanted cases. Interesting ones. Bloody ones. Locked-room murders. There had been the drugs. And then he had wanted to retain John’s friendship. 

Somehow, none of that seems to matter now. Fate has given him Mycroft. Now that he thinks about it, there really is no one else he would rather have as a soulmate. Handsome and kind big brother. Who wanted to see Sherlock happy. And with those words – Sherlock doesn’t doubt their veracity, not even for a second – Mycroft had managed to bare his own soul.

***

It is a relief once the Jag stops – having pulled up to a homey stone cottage. Sherlock scrambles out, eager to stretch his cramping limbs. He strides off the gravel road onto the lush grasses overlooking the lake down below. The sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving tendrils of vivid purple-red twilight in its wake. Acting on a childish whim, Sherlock runs down the few metres to the landing stage where a covered motor boat bobs up and down gently with the almost still waves. 

The winds from the lake gust around him – a much welcome reprieve from the hell he had left just hours ago. An odd sort of serenity settles within him, as his eyes take in the scenery – from the looking-glass waters to the quickly dimming skies. Nature had never done that for him in his adulthood – and ever since he had left the countryside for London – he hadn’t looked back. But, now – things are different. He’s older. He has his memories back. The happy ones, along with the horrors. Perhaps, this is his body (or maybe even fate) telling him that it’s time for things to change. 

The dock sways, and Sherlock almost yelps when an arm readily encircles his waist. Mycroft. 

“Just where do you think you are going, hm?” His brother’s warm breath tickles his neck. There is something so wondrously thrilling in the silk of his tone. It’s almost… dare he say – flirtatious. 

There is a comforting warmth that seems to radiate from where Mycroft’s arm is in contact with his torso. He hardly recognizes the look on big brother’s face – playful and fond? An expression one would direct at a lover, rather than a sibling – but that’s what they are now? Isn’t it? 

“Running away.” Sherlock turns slightly – smirking, reaching for Mycroft’s free arm.

“Barely half a day in, and you already want to flee?” Mycroft teases. “What do you plan to do, Lock – jump into the water with my tie and swim away?”

Oh. Sherlock is still holding onto his brother’s tie. He had slept with it the night before, running his fingers against its silky texture. Sniffing it for the residual scent of Mycroft’s cologne. Rather embarrassing, now that he thinks about it. 

Even sentimental. 

“Keep it.” Mycroft leans slightly forward to brush a kiss against Sherlock’s forehead. 

“I am afraid, Mycroft – I think –” Sherlock trails off.

“What do you think, little brother?” Mycroft then adds. “You can tell me anything, you know.”

“The soulbond has rather addled my mind. The things I feel – I can’t believe anyone has walked away from a bond.” Sherlock murmurs. “If every soulbond is as intense as this.” 

“You are afraid.” Mycroft cups one of Sherlock’s cheeks with his hand, using a finger to tenderly caress his zygomatic arch. “To fall.”

“Yes.” Somehow, this fall seems far more terrifying than Sherlock’s leap off Bart’s all those years ago.

“Lock.” Mycroft’s irises seem to darken under the nascent starlight. He tilts Sherlock’s face so that they are looking directly at each other. “I promise I will catch you. Regardless of how far you fall.” 

Sherlock leans forward just a little more so that their lips brush together. Something bittersweet seems to fill him. Big brother is always trying to catch him, save him from the next disaster that Sherlock always seems to be running toward at full tilt. While Mycroft had been little sister’s keeper, he had been Sherlock’s protector – and what thankless roles he’s had to play throughout the years! It makes him nauseous, to know that Mycroft literally had walked alone for years, bearing burdens that no one ever should have ever borne. While, he – Sherlock – had done everything to make everything so much harder for him. 

And he wonders. Who will catch Mycroft when he falls? 

_ You. _

The answer comes to him readily. Whether he is ready or not. 

He entwines his fingers within Mycroft’s short hair, gaining a bit more control over their snogging. God. How could this be so addictive! Sherlock had always found it rather gross. The sharing of saliva and germs – Herpes simplex, Epstein-Barr, Influenza – even bloody Syphilis stay in business thanks to the age-old human predilection of spit swappage. But then again, this is Mycroft – and no transmissible pathogen would dare have the impertinence to colonize his brother. Each kiss is like a wonderful hit of a wondrous drug – and he just wants more and more. And more. It isn’t until they are gasping for air when they reluctantly part, the twilight finally having given way to the darkness of the night sky studded with stars. 

“I want us to fall together.” Sherlock whispers, his voice barely audible in the wind. His eyes look vulnerably at Mycroft – and he adds. “Not everyone has the chance to try and create something with the one they are meant to be with.” 

Damn. Is the man who once said ‘sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side’?!? Mycroft muses to himself as he contemplates Sherlock’s words. But then again, if this is losing – then Mycroft will happily embrace the role of being a loser. 

Instead of verbalizing any of his thoughts, he initiates another round of kisses, plunging his own hand into Sherlock’s mess of curls. 

“Come, big brother – you did say that they left dinner in the cottage – let’s go feed you.” A rather rumpled looking Sherlock gives him a fond smile after they stop once again to respire, letting his soulmarked hand trail over Mycroft’s grumbling stomach. 


	8. Chapter 8

It is in another unfamiliar bed that Sherlock finds himself in. The linens are soft beneath his skin, and an arm(?) seems to be draped possessively(?) around his waist. Mycroft. He opens his eyes – it’s still dark out. The light hum of the centralized air conditioner and Mycroft’s soft breaths fill the air. For someone used to sleeping alone, it is a surprisingly comfortable sound. They are upstairs in the spacious cottage, and Sherlock can actually remember everything that happened before they had ended up in bed together… well to just sleep. Big brother had been exhausted. 

They had eaten the dinner – a light fare of fish and pork and pineapple tacos and a simple vegetable salad. There was also a pitcher of mango and green lassi in the fridge to go with the food. Then they had gone upstairs, and Sherlock had almost died of embarrassment when he had noticed flower petals scattered into the shape of a heart on the canopied bed, a vase of red roses, a plate of chocolate dipped strawberries, a box of pink macaroons and a generous gift basket that had contained things such as luxury candles, lubricant and even condoms. 

‘Anthea.’ Mycroft had muttered darkly under his breath upon seeing the room. He had shaken his head, and mumbled something under his breath about putting up with impertinently helpful assistants. 

Sherlock had shoved his big brother off toward the shower, having sensed his fatigue and dug out some pyjamas from Mycroft’s suitcase to bring into the loo. Where he had caught his first (sober?) eyeful of his brother naked. He had gasped, tucked his brother’s nightwear behind a rail and promptly walked out. 

Because if his eyes had lingered any longer, he would have lost any willpower to leave. 

He could see the visual even now in spectacular detail – his brother’s surprisingly pert bottom (how the fuck had he never noticed that before?!?), toned thighs, equally lovely shoulders and trim waist. And the hair over his shoulders! 

God. Soulbound or not, Sherlock would have found his brother hot if he had actually bothered to look. Rather than piling on the diet and weight jokes. It seems so stupid in retrospect. But he had been stupid. About Mycroft. About John. About Mary… the list goes on and on. 

Sighing, he had opened the case that his brother (or rather Anthea) had prepared for him afterwards. He had known that his brother would have packed for him, so he hadn’t bothered. His fingers caressed all the luxurious material of the clothes that he knew would fit him perfectly. He had taken out the things he had needed, before flinging himself onto the bed – scattering the petals somewhat – waiting for Mycroft to come out. 

He moves his foot, and his toe brushes against a soft petal that they hadn’t managed to clear off the bed. He had showered after Mycroft – and then by the time he had finished, Mycroft had fallen asleep. So he had followed suit. 

Platonic brotherly bedsharing. They had done that before in their youth. 

But he wonders – what a honeymoon (sex holiday) night could have really been like. He shakes his head. The women have really gotten to him. Mrs. Hudson and her endless recollections of her old girlish romances. Mummy’s ghastly conversation over weddings. Anthea’s gifts. And dear mother of god – that wistful sigh Mummy had emitted during the talk of honeymoons. Is he imagining things? Is Mummy thinking about her relationship with their Father, or is she thinking about her sons… doing it? 

Horrors! 

He slides off his wristband – the silver shimmers even in the dark now. ‘Myc’ is still inked on his skin. They hadn’t earned a letter the previous day then. He sighs. They would need all of the letters before they could even do the consummation – Sherlock had realized only yesterday. There’s no way they could have done it all drunk on that fateful night. That had been silly wistful thinking. It is devious Nature ensuring that her chosen pairs had adequate time to learn about each other. 

Sherlock smiles when the little dragon makes a return – curled up in a ball – asleep. With one limb extended outward – rather like what Mycroft is doing right now – sticking one of his legs out of the duvet. A habit that has been there since their childhoods. Then he wonders – if he wakes the soulmark, would it wake Mycroft up too? Mm… interesting hypothesis, but he doesn’t want to disturb Mycroft from his well-deserved rest. He settles for petting it with a finger. The dragon seems to snort and grumble (although there is no noise), and soon it is up. It yawns, and Sherlock murmurs an apology to it – although Mycroft is still blissfully asleep. 

So much for that hypothesis then. 

The dragon seems to be rubbing its face against Sherlock’s finger – liking the attention. Sherlock obliges it, and it gives him a fond happy gaze. Like the ones Mycroft had given him last night. And the day before. He finds the act rather relaxing, calming him down from all the anxieties that had been churning in his gut. He had been truthful last night down at the dock – he wants them both to fall. To give this a genuine go. But he doesn’t want other people meddling. Ah. To pressure them into doing things and making commitments that they can’t quite handle yet (if ever!).

“Are you Mycroft?” Sherlock whispers quietly to the soulmark.

He gets an elegant snort from the dragon – a puff of silvery air, and a wag of its long tail. As if his question is considered too trivial to be answered. 

Does it even understand language? 

“What are you?” Sherlock wonders more to himself.

Soulmarks appear to be made from some celestial matter poorly understood by man. It cannot be photographed. Sherlock had tried it himself – his wrist would show up bare on the picture. Mirrors cannot reflect them. Some daring people had tried to biopsy the skin that had been inked, but had found nothing for their troubles after extensive testing – all sorts of fancy microscopy, spectroscopies and other analytical tools had been used. It is a conundrum that every chemist and physicist worth their salt had considered at one time or another. A serial killer had even tried to skin their victims’ wrists to collect their soulmarks after he had killed them – only for the skin to appear unmarked as soon as he had hacked it off. ‘A great disappointment.’ – the murderer had confessed to Sherlock after Lestrade and he had caught up to the killer.

“Can you travel elsewhere on my body?” Sherlock asks the dragon.

The creature sprawls on its belly, looking too contentedly lazy to go anywhere. One of its eyes blinks deliberately at Sherlock. 

“If you are really Mycroft – indulge me.” Sherlock lets his finger caress the dragon’s head.

Another casual swish of its tail. Its eyes seem to say.  _ Must I? _

A surprising amount of guilt washes through him. 

Mycroft gives and gives – and Sherlock takes and takes. And now he’s demanding his suspiciously Mycroftian soulmark to do things to satiate his knowledge. He’s been an awful brother throughout the years. He blinks, feeling unexpected moisture in his eyes. He doesn’t want to be an awful soulmate too. 

Mycroft doesn’t deserve that. 

_ I want you to be happy. _ Mycroft had said to him yesterday. 

God. He wipes at his eyes with his non-soulmarked hand. 

How could he be so stupid? 

“I want you to be happy too.” Sherlock whispers to the dragon. “Do as you will.” 

He presses a kiss against his soulmark. The scales and eyes of the dragon seem to glow brighter and shimmer, and then it vanishes – forming the three letters that had been there before. 

Before Sherlock had time to lament the disappearance of the dragon, he hears Mycroft stir beside him. “Mm… brother mine – why are you up at his ungodly hour?”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock turns around to see him (well, as much as he could in the dark with the light glow of his soulmark). He burrows into his brother’s chest and Mycroft’s arm gently combs through his messy curls. “I am sorry.” He sniffs.

“Lock.” Mycroft’s voice is ever so fond. “Sorry for what?”

“Everything.” Sherlock mumbles into his brother’s pyjama top. “I would make a list of everything I am sorry for, but I don’t think there’s enough seconds in my life to write them all –”

“Sherlock – I don’t want your apologies.” 

“Because they are woefully inadequate –”

“No. Lock – look at me.” Mycroft gently tilts Sherlock’s head upwards. “We’ve both done a lot of things to be sorry for over the years. I think we should start anew. A clean slate.”

Sherlock sees the wisdom in that. And if his brother doesn’t want his verbal apologies, he would show him he cared through his actions. 

“You took the band off.” Mycroft looks at Sherlock’s mark in wonder. “I didn’t realize they glowed in the dark.” 

“I think that’s new.” Sherlock murmurs.

“And what brought this on, anyways?” Mycroft brushes a finger over Sherlock’s face. “Oh – Lock – please don’t cry over me.” 

“Wasn’t crying.” Sherlock’s words have no weight behind them. 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft cups his cheek with his large hand – and their faces are brushing soothingly against each other. “Sherlock…” He lets their lips lightly touch, using his arm to bring Sherlock closer. “It’s okay to care.” 

“I know. It’s just…” Sherlock trails off.

“Just what…” Mycroft asks patiently. 

“This matters.” 

“Lock.” His brother’s breath is ghosting against his skin.

“I… don’t want to disappoint you.” Sherlock is blinking quickly. 

“You…” Mycroft looks incredulously at him. “Sherlock, Sherlock – we will figure it out together.” He lets their foreheads touch as their bodies are embracing each other. “We have time.” 

“Mm…” Sherlock allows their noses to nuzzle against one another. “This feels good, Mycroft…” 

“Yes.” Mycroft smiles at him, before kissing him – his kiss languid, but full of an affection that Sherlock had never imagined could have been directed at him. 

“We could have been doing this instead of bickering.” Sherlock smirks against Mycroft’s lip when they break for a breath. 

“Perhaps.” Mycroft goes for another kiss. “Better use of our mouths.” And he gasps when Sherlock flicks his tongue quickly against his bottom lip. 

“And our tongues.” Sherlock’s eyes twinkle with mischief. 

“Certainly yours – god – brother, if I had known that I could have done this to silence your – mph.” 

“It works both ways, brother dear.” Sherlock sighs when his soulmarked hand interlaces its digits with Mycroft’s. With his other hand, he tugs off Mycroft’s wristband – revealing the ‘She’. Reverently, he traces over the letters. There is something so intimate about this action. “Wonder what would Mummy say?”

“Ha.” Mycroft almost giggles. 

The whole scenario is ludicrous. Mycroft almost wishes that he could just purge that entire conversation with Mummy from his brain. The tone she had spoken her words in towards the end had a little bit too much innuendo for his taste. Mummy probably thinks they are going at it like – ugh. Mycroft banishes the thought from his mind. He’s perfectly content to cuddle up to Lock right now and enjoy his company. 

Little brother had scampered out of the bathroom yesterday in a panic when he had caught sight of him naked. Which was amusing in itself – considering how much Sherlock had flaunted his own nakedness as a weapon in his younger years. Ah. Buckingham Palace – he still remembers his brother’s impertinence. Rumor is that the Queen had gotten an eyeful from upstairs – although Mycroft had never mustered the fortitude to inquire further about the event. And besides, Lock had been tearing over something. Mycroft had been awake long enough to hear Sherlock whispering in the dark. His soulmark. Mycroft wonders if Sherlock’s soulmark has an alternate form too, although he hasn’t seen his own dragon-Lock(?) since yesterday. 

“What are we going to do today, Mycroft?” Sherlock rests his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“Whatever you want. Think the housekeeper is going to leave breakfast downstairs around eight. Mm… we can go stargazing tonight. The weather would be optimum for that. There’s a nice spot not too far from here. There’s a quaint little village nearby. Trails. Swimming –”

“The boat outside – is it –”

“Yes. We can use that too. Lock – you pirate.” Mycroft kisses Sherlock’s cheek. 

“This really doesn’t feel real.” Sherlock murmurs. “The last time we spent so much time together in private was before the Fall.” 

“Scheming.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock smiles. “How times have changed, Mycroft.”

“Indeed.”

Sherlock presses his hand against Mycroft’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the steady reliable beat of his heart underneath. 

Hell. Was it just a few days ago where he had been pointing a gun toward this very organ? He could feel the heft of the gun in his hand. The anguish from that moment revisits him. 

‘I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside of me. I don’t imagine it’s much of a target, but… why don’t we try for that?’ Mycroft had said (requested). 

In his heart of hearts – Sherlock had known from the very beginning that he would have never shot his brother. He would have killed himself. In fact he had planned to if there had been no out to be found. But his brother – is he mad? Willing to die so that Sherlock and John could live? Thinking that Sherlock could have killed him without a modicum of a repercussion? 

And his brother’s heart – encased in ice it may be – had always – gods. Sherlock turns away from his brother, trying to hide the sudden efflux of tears that had managed to escape from his realization. Before he attempts to scamper out of the bed to go to the sink and wash his face – Mycroft’s arm had curled around his torso again, drawing him closer. 

“Ah. Lock.” Mycroft sighs somewhat indulgently. “What did I say earlier?” 

“I wouldn’t have –” Sherlock almost gasps – needing his brother to know.

“Sh… Lock. I know.” Mycroft gently caresses his brother’s back. “It’s over now.” 

Sherlock sobs uncontrollably into Mycroft’s chest – and Mycroft simply rocks him. 

The traumas of Sherrinford. Mycroft had understood at that devastating moment. The truth when Sherlock had taken the gun and turned it to himself. It had been the singular worst moment of Mycroft’s entire life (and career). Sherlock had always intended for it to end this way from the beginning of their sister’s ghastly experiment (revenge). 

For it was revenge, was it not? Eurus had always despised the fact that Sherlock spent his time with him and not her during their childhood. 

Getting the person that Mycroft has loved best to kill him. 

The only being he’s ever loved.

Everything during that last problem had been a distraction. A farce. A desperate attempt to buy time to find an alternative. When push comes to shove, little brother would always pick the most gallant option, despite his proclaimed sociopathic heart. His brother had always been the brave one. Sometimes even the smarter one. And at that moment, Mycroft had also realized that Sherlock had regained much of his forgotten memories. Acknowledging their own brotherly bond buried beneath amidst the rubble of the East Wind’s chaos with that one last look between them. 

It had meant to be Sherlock’s last gesture (gift) for him. 

A phoenix emerging from the ashes at the death. That if sister dear had made it her life’s goal to to raze their fraternal relationship to the ground out of childish jealousy, she would have lost the war even with their deaths.

A deep sense of affection courses through Mycroft’s chest, almost clenching against the heart that he knew existed deep within him. He ducks his head down and lightly trails his lips against his brother’s forehead, his fingers reaching upward to wipe away the tears and snot that had gathered. Tracing that elegant zygomatic arch. 

It means the world to him that Sherlock wanted to give this a proper chance. 

“I am sorry, Mycroft – I am such a mess.” Sherlock murmurs, trying to clear the snot. 

“Lock. It’s okay. You’ve been busy since Sherrinford. Dealing with your newly-discovered memories. The bond. Your cases. Dealing with our parents. It only makes sense that you will start processing what has happened when you get a moment’s respite. I just want you to know, brother – that you can talk to me about anything.” 

Mycroft picks up Sherlock’s soulmarked wrist and brings the mark to his lips, bestowing the soulmark with a delicate kiss. The letters seem to almost dance and sparkle, and the ethereal silver of the ‘ink’ ripples like flowing water.

“And that I will always be here for you, Sherlock. I’ve said it before, but I think it deserves repeating.”

“I want to be there for you always too, Mycroft. I will probably fuck it up at the beginning, but –”

“Oh, Lock.” Mycroft’s eyes are bright in the dim room – where the sunlight from the rising sun is beginning to poke through the thick curtains. He seems speechless, as if this was something he had never expected from Sherlock. 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock nuzzles his face affectionately against Mycroft’s, feeling the stubble graze against his face. He twists his wrist slightly so that all six letters of their soulmarks are in view. His lips meet his brother’s – and he allows himself to melt into the kiss. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion under the stars.

As dusk quickly falls upon them, his brother is building a fire. His hands methodically arrange shore rocks in a circle, branches into a teepee and a bundle of dry twigs, leaves and even the receipts that they had acquired from earlier in the day beneath the structure for kindling. 

This is déjà vu. Seeing Mycroft do this, as he had done many times when Sherlock had been a child. A rush of fondness and warmth fills Sherlock’s chest; this version of Mycroft most closely approximates the Mycroft that he remembers from his childhood memories. 

The big brother that he had adored as a child.

Sherlock rolls on his side on the comfortable padded picnic blanket, enjoying the refreshingly cool breeze. God. Today. Sherlock smiles. Roaming the rustic village nearby. Snacking on gingerbread from a local bakery. Kisses shared in a gorgeous garden. Their hands getting more adventurous with each session of snogging. Back to the cottage for lunch. Fish and chips with mushy peas. Mycroft’s favourite guilty pleasure. The motor boat! The sun had been at its zenith (solar noon) when they had clambered aboard. It had been hot. Humid. Excruciatingly so as Mycroft tried to figure out how to pilot the boat. 

He pulls out his phone. No reception here. He sees the text exchange that John and he had had earlier on in the day. 

_ Do I need to send Greg to wherever you are now? JW _

_ Who? SH _

_ Lestrade! JW _

_ Why would I need his services? SH _

_ To stop your soulmate from committing homicide! I certainly wanted to do so yesterday while you were moaning and groaning in the flat from the heat. JW _

_ As hard as it is to believe, it’s hotter today. JW _

_ Very funny. SH _

_ Don’t you have patients to poison? SH _

_ Lunch break. It’s a light day today. Not a lot of victims to ply my trade on. I am going to Molly’s afterward to fetch Rosie. It’s her day off. JW _

_ Did she say anything about me? SH _

_ Why, Sherlock, you do seem to care about her wellbeing! JW _

_ She is a fount of body parts! And I still do need to work with her on cases. SH _

_ Does your soulmate know how hard-hearted you can be at times? JW _

Sherlock hadn’t replied. He closes his eyes. 

Of course Mycroft knows how callous he could be. How cruel! All the people he had used and manipulated. But all he could think of is how badly he had treated Mycroft over the years. His brother had told him to forget about it. It’s not so easy. He finds that it weighs quite heavily on his soul(?). Even more so now that he knows how much his brother had meant to him when he had been young. Before he had forgotten all his memories. How must Mycroft have felt?!? Realizing the decay of their relationship over the years. After Victor’s death. 

Is the ice that he had been so known for – because of him? Caring is not an advantage. All hearts are broken. Mycroft had been young too then. 

What lonely parallel paths they had trod! 

His brother pulls out a waterproof match from a small container and strikes it – tossing it casually onto the kindling. The material instantly catches. Satisfied, Mycroft stands up and joins him on the mat. His arm finds its way around Sherlock’s torso, and Sherlock leans against him.

“I haven’t done that since we were children. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Sherlock looks. The lake with its waves gently lapping at the shore. The quickly disappearing remnants of light from the sun. The sky populated with the twinkle of countless stars. 

“A sky full of stars.” Sherlock remarks, turning his head to nuzzle against his brother’s cheek. “A glimpse into the past. Polaris.” He points to the north star – finding his old fount of astronomy rather intact from decades of disuse. “323 lightyears away. We are only seeing how it is – three centuries ago.” 

“The past – you’ve been thinking about it.” Mycroft muses. “It makes sense. You’ve only been recently acquainted.” 

Sherlock shakes his head, letting his lips brush lightly against his brother’s. His hand reaches up to caress his brother’s linen shirt – and his fingers undo the top button – catching a glimpse of the dark fur that generously adorn Mycroft’s chest. 

“You cared.” Sherlock whispers, allowing the same hand to caress his brother’s cheek. “You always did – for me. Even… when I forgot about you. And… what you meant to me. Brother mine.” 

“Yes. How could I not?” Mycroft replies, his voice raw with deep emotion. 

“You were… the keeper of memory.” 

Mycroft smiles slightly. “Perhaps. I thought… that even our parents did a good job of forgetting. But – that’s not so unexpected. Mummy had so wanted a daughter. And to watch her grow up and do as she did –” He shakes his head. 

“Did you think… Mycroft – that I would become like her? After Magnussen?” Sherlock gently takes Mycroft’s hand in his own. “He isn’t the first I’ve killed. You know that. You know what I had to do when I went away. Yet – you were furious with me –”

“Furious, yes. Hell.” Mycroft swears. “He was a blight on society. But he wasn’t your problem to deal with, brother mine. Not your dragon to slay.” He sighs deeply – getting to the real crux of the issue. “You did everything for them. The Watsons.”

There is a surprising amount of pain on Mycroft’s face. His brother’s hand reaches over and lightly touches Sherlock’s abdomen, right over where the top of the exploratory laparotomy scar lies. 

“You… coded on that table. Brother.”

“But I lived.”

“Yet you still died.” 

His brother’s hand slides right – over the entry wound of the bullet. 

Sherlock realizes something. “You would have killed her?” 

“Very few nights went by where I did not contemplate the topic.”

The darkness that falls on Mycroft’s face is mildly frightening. 

“You would kill for me.” Sherlock breathes, surprised. But perhaps the idea wasn’t so shocking. His brother had buried so many of Sherlock’s wrongdoings over the years – drugs, treason, murder, to name a few – really, what’s another body? No this wasn’t the man who had hesitated shooting back at Sherrinford. In fact – perhaps Mycroft had known that their sister had intended to kill both the governor and his wife from the very beginning. No point in drawing blood yourself if someone else was going to do it anyways.

His brother merely smiles with dark pleasantry. And Sherlock wonders for the first time if Mycroft had climbed so high up the echelons of power to serve his wayward siblings, rather than for Queen and Country. 

“God. My. You dangerous man.” 

Sherlock slides his hand into his brother’s thinning hair, and leans forward to kiss him. Fiercely. He teases Mycroft’s lips with his tongue, and slips inward when they part – almost trembling with pleasure when his tongue tangles with his brother’s for the first time. His nimble fingers work further at the top buttons of Mycroft’s shirt – before his palm comes into contact with a fur-covered chest. God. Mycroft. The revelation takes his breath away. It was love – not duty, power, ambition, or whatever else Sherlock had once mocked Mycroft with – that had driven Mycroft to do what he had thought was necessary. To create his niche behind the shadows. 

“I would do anything for you.” 

“I know. Mycroft.” Sherlock kisses him again. “I know now.”

His fingers gently comb through the tufts of Mycroft’s fur. Fuck. Sherlock wishes he had more experience in these matters. Instead, he does an anatomic study, exploring the edges of bone, feeling well-defined muscle ripple beneath his fingertips and following them from their origins to insertion points – his lips and tongue gently kissing his way down Mycroft’s neck. His brother jerks slightly when he brushes against a nipple – and intrigued – Sherlock presses an open-mouthed kiss against the nub of flesh and is amazed at the barely muffled obscene noise that escapes Mycroft’s throat. 

Hm… there might be something to this sex business if it could make big brother lose control like this. 

He continues his explorations, trailing kisses down Mycroft’s thorax to his belly – his hands reverently touching the softer flesh here. Why did he ever make fun of his brother’s weight? He wonders. It had always been his adolescent brother’s soft spot – but when he had grown up, he had shed the excess. And Sherlock loves it – worshiping the flesh that Mycroft looks at the mirror every day and wishes that it looked different. He rubs his cheekbone against his brother’s abdomen, and his fingers undo Mycroft’s belt – before fumbling somewhat at his fly. 

“God, Sherlock – you don’t have to –”

“Sh… Mycroft. Let me do this.” Sherlock then giggles. “Lie back and think of England.”

“Oh, you cheeky br–” 

Sherlock clambers back up his brother’s torso – his hands planted over his brother’s shoulders, as he leans downward to kiss him into another silence. Mm… kissing – who knew how useful it could be! And then he yelps when Mycroft suddenly flips him over. 

There is a feral grin on Mycroft’s countenance. “I do believe it is my turn.” 

Damn. His brother is strong. Sherlock sighs when Mycroft bends down to kiss his neck. 

“Didn’t think you would want to do this so soon.” Mycroft murmurs, looking appreciatively at his brother, illuminated under the starlight. Laid out like a feast for the senses. “It was just yesterday that –”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock gasps when his brother sucks at his pulse point. “I had to leave.”

“Really?” Mycroft presses a not-so-apologetic kiss over a mark that is sure to stay. 

“I… I found you rather… hot.” Sherlock admits, feeling rather embarrassed. 

Mycroft brushes his lips tenderly over a reddened cheek. Gods. How things change! He cradles his brother’s head with one of his hands. It’s as if they are tearing down all the barriers and dissolving all the hurt that had been built up between them through the years with every word and every touch. They stay like this – nuzzling their faces against each other – deriving comfort from each other like this. 

It is heaven; it is bliss. 

If this is his reward for his toil over the years – then he would happily suffer through everything over again. Sherlock’s eyes sparkle with affection and Mycroft’s throat wants to give life to all the words of love and devotion that he had long suppressed deep down within him. He resists, knowing that it would be too much at this moment. Sherlock is fond of him, yes – but he hasn’t reached the same page yet. And Mycroft certainly doesn’t expect it to happen quickly. 

The affairs of the heart should take time. 

“I am glad.” Mycroft murmurs after the passage of many minutes. “One should find their paramour as such.” He contemplates Sherlock’s shirt – and slowly reaches for a button – checking to see if Sherlock wants to take this step. 

“I… I’ve got scars.” Sherlock says rather inanely. He can’t compare to the physical perfection that is his brother. 

“I know. Believe me, I do know.” Mycroft had seen them all. And weren’t they just discussing a few of them earlier? “And… I don’t care. You may be the one who wears them, Lock – but I bear their weight too.” He works the buttons open. “It’s like the stars, Sherlock, as you said – a glimpse of the past. Constellations on your flesh.” 

Tenderly, he kisses the edge of the vertical scar that mars Sherlock’s belly. He glances up, seeing Sherlock’s vulnerable eyes look down at him. “God, you have no idea how you look – don’t you? So beautiful under the moonlight. Darling.” Mycroft can’t help but to let the endearment slip – but he reaches over to capture his brother’s delectable lips again. 

With his fingers he reverently explores skin – as his brother had done for him earlier – marveling at how one brother could be so hairy – while the other, so smooth. Sherlock arches into his every touch, and his body seems to shudder in pleasure as Mycroft works his way down. He removes Sherlock’s wristband – revealing the ‘Myc’ inscribed upon the wrist – its silvery sheen luminous. 

“Mycroft, please.” Sherlock is practically a wreck – his hips bucking from beneath Mycroft – desperately looking for some sort of friction. 

“Patience.” 

“My…” Sherlock moans helplessly when his brother frees his aching cock from the confines of his trousers. 

He gasps when Mycroft’s own reddened, throbbing prick (exactly how he remembers it) comes into contact with his own – and a lubricated hand (how many things did Mycroft keep in his trouser pocket?!?) encircles both their phalli, and strokes at a slow and steady rhythm. And when Mycroft’s lips meet his again – the sensation of pleasure is so overwhelming that Sherlock swears that he is seeing stars. 

And then, he’s recalling flashes of sensation. From that first fateful night. Of the two of them fumbling in the darkened bedroom. They had been in this exact same position. Mycroft frantically stumbling to find a bottle of lubricant he had kept hidden in his nightstand. Their breathless pants as big brother frigs them together – but unlike their current sex – it had been quick and desperate, and they had finished pretty quickly before rolling over onto their respective sides of the bed and falling asleep, sated and absurdly drunk. 

Sherlock opens his eyes – realizing that he’s missing data. He wants to see what Mycroft looks like in the throes of pleasure. The cusp of orgasm. Their build is a gentle simmer – and they spend most of it snogging. 

He catches his brother’s eye –  _ Good? _ . And he can’t help but nod enthusiastically. 

His brother chuckles and whispers silkily. “Mm… speechless again, hm?” 

Mycroft reflexively grabs Sherlock’s hand before he could swat at him, and he groans when he collapses bodily against Sherlock – temporarily having forgotten that his other hand is occupied. 

“My…” Sherlock exhales both noisily and shakily. 

He could somehow sense that for a brief moment Mycroft had been expecting a scathing comment from him – maybe along the lines of a diet joke. And it hits him with a dismay so awful that he feels nauseous. That he would do such a thing during such an act of intimacy between them. His brother’s hand which had been pulling deliciously at both their cocks has stilled. 

“God. No. Never again.” Sherlock breathes – using the hand that had caused all this trouble to begin with to cup Mycroft’s face, urging him for another tender kiss. It’s as what Sherlock had thought – it would be difficult if not impossible to discard the past; they would have to work together to build something beautiful from the ruins. The scars. He reaches downward to their neglected pricks, and slathers the mix of precum and lube on his own hand and continues where Mycroft had left off. “Brother mine, look at me.” Sherlock whispers.

He’s never seen Mycroft look so vulnerable then at this moment. Lit by the flickering flames; the celestial glow of the moon and stars. Yet – all Sherlock could see is the universe in Mycroft’s blue irises. He quickens his strokes somewhat. It’s a privilege. Sherlock knows. He will be the only person on this planet – hell, in these cosmos (all ~ 10 53 kg of it!) that will ever get to see Mycroft with all his shields down. The pleasure seems to swell in his loins as he adds a twist at the end of his strokes (his own preferred technique for wanking) and he can hear Mycroft’s own breaths becoming laboured. Those irises seem to darken the further they go, and Sherlock whispers breathlessly. “Let go when you are ready, My  –”

“Not without you.” Mycroft gasps, closing the gap between them to share another kiss. “Oh, Sherlock – Sherlock…” The words get muffled when their lips join.

“Fuck. Come – with…” Sherlock manages – his hips bucking as he tries to stave off his peak.

“Lock!” Mycroft rasps – as he gives in to the inevitable, spilling his seed – just as Sherlock does – the cum splattering between their bellies. “Cuore mio.” <My heart.> He breathes, falling upon his brother again – feeling absolutely boneless – his formidable brain barely able to contain a thought. 

“Myc…” Sherlock murmurs contentedly, humming as his fingers lightly combing through his brother’s thinning hair. He finds that he rather likes having Mycroft’s weight on top of him. A comfortable anchoring presence. Warm. It’s helpful that he isn’t all angular muscle and bone. His brother looks adorable like this – post-coitally dazed. “I adore you. Sei la mia anima gemella.” <You are my soulmate.> Sherlock says.

Mycroft then laughs, rolling off Sherlock’s torso – leaving him exposed to the colder winds of the night. Sherlock grins too, feeling the emotion that had permeated the space dissipate. 

“Well, you are my soulmate, Lock – whether you like it or not.” 

“Oh, I like it. Very much.” Sherlock quickly reassures him. He grabs a napkin from the basket nearby to wipe the cum off his belly, and does the same for Mycroft – although they are really going to have to go back and shower to get the sticky stuff completely off. He throws his own shirt over his torso and drapes Mycroft’s over his brother’s shoulders. He then adds quietly. “There is no one else I would rather do this with, Mycroft.”

Mycroft doesn’t reply, simply reaching for Sherlock’s soulmarked hand. 

Damn, is that spark of pleasure always going to be there whenever they hold hands? Sherlock wonders as they turn their wrists over, and the ink is so bright that it appears almost white – not unlike the moonlight. The letters seem to melt, and Sherlock sees his soul-dragon(?) emerge from the puddle – and another such creature from on Mycroft’s arm. His dragon looks bigger than he had seen it last. The two beings suddenly appear to catch sight of each other and jump in surprise – Mycroft’s dragon tripping over its tail in its shock. And then, both vanish like wisps of smoke – leaving ‘Sherl’ on Mycroft’s wrist, and ‘Mycr’ on Sherlock’s. 

“You have an extra letter.” Sherlock remarks, musing that there’s something adorably clumsy about Mycroft’s soulmark. But then again, his name has more letters than Mycroft’s.

“Careful, Lock – I believe that my soulmark may be you.” Mycroft had accurately followed his thoughts, sounding rather defensive. 

“They seem easily startled. I guess… they’ve never met.” 

“Ah. Perhaps they will need to kiss too.” Mycroft theorizes.

“We are a pair of dragons then? I like that. Bloody hell, will they need to have sex?”

“Who knows? Guess we will find out.” Mycroft presses a fond kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “Do you want to start roasting the marshmallows?”

“There’s chocolate, isn’t there? And biscuits?”

“Of course, Lock – just like –”

“The old days. And hot spiced apple juice?”

At Mycroft’s nod, Sherlock wraps his arms around his brother in a hug. Of course, big brother remembers what was their custom back decades ago. 


	10. Chapter 10

Fucking hell. 

It’s fucking hot out.

Sherlock wipes at his forehead with the back of his hand as they tramp around the lake. Mycroft is holding the picnic basket in one hand, and Sherlock’s hand in the other, looking utterly unaffected by the heat. Looking like some being that had just walked off some photoshoot, with his simple linen shirt and trousers. Must be some sorcery, Sherlock muses enviously. Well, someone has to look like a disaster in each relationship. 

His phone vibrates repeatedly, and he takes a look. 

Fuck. It’s from Mummy. 

What does she want now? And… when did she learn how to text?!? 

With minor trepidation he opens the text(s). The phone does not stop buzzing. 

Pictures. Ornate floral centrepieces. Ice sculptures. Doves. An elaborate custom-made arch made up with flowers. Hanging flowers on the ceiling. Ornate Indian umbrellas. A white Rolls-Royce. A cake with nine-tiers (nine!?!) How many bloody people are going to be there? A gif featuring a cannon blowing rose petals over an audience. Peacocks. Marbled wedding invitations with gilt handwriting. Tablecloths (pink and gold, another of white lace). A string trio. Flamingoes! An orchestra. 

A chocolate fountain.

Napkins folded into swans. Swans!!! 

He stops here. He needs a cigarette even though he hasn’t smoked one in a long while. He still has trauma from John’s wedding planning all those years back. 

Fucking fuck. Is Mummy crazy? 

They’ve barely been together! He scrolls to the end, where Mummy writes.

_ Just some ideas from my dossier, dear. I know men don’t tend to think of these little details. Your Father certainly didn’t! Mummy  _

“What’s wrong, Lock?” Mycroft stops when he realizes that Sherlock had stopped walking a few seconds ago, staring at his phone as if hoping that if he stared hard enough, it would spontaneously disappear. 

Sherlock hastily hands him his phone. “Take it before I toss it into the lake – Mycroft.” 

“Good heavens! Did she really… learn how to text?” Mycroft shakes his head with disbelief when the next text appears.

_ If you would like me to do the planning, I would be delighted to! Oh my boys! I didn’t think I would live to see the day! Mummy _

“I don’t feel safe anymore, Mycroft.” Sherlock collapses dramatically, using Mycroft’s shoulders as support. The heat is a minor inconvenience compared to… whatever this is.

_ And, Myc, please do remember Buckingham Palace. It will be so lovely. And so fitting, after everything you have done for our country. Mummy _

“Lock, Lock.” Mycroft switches off the phone and places it into the picnic basket. He shakes his head – Mummy had deduced correctly that Lock had passed his phone to him. “It’s alright, darling.” He wraps one arm around Sherlock’s sweat-stained shirt and he kisses his cheek. “We will take it one day at a time. It will be okay, I promise. Come – let’s go eat.” He takes his brother’s hand again, and leads him to a small copse of beech trees near the lake. 

“You are the best.” Sherlock smiles slightly when they both bend down to spread out their picnic blanket – feeling calmer. 

Mycroft simply looks at him, his eyes radiating fondness. Sherlock leans forward to give him a quick peck on the lips, before opening the picnic basket – containing takeaway. It’s amazing how comfortable he feels in Mycroft’s presence now. 

Last night had really made a difference. 

He pulls out all the food and cutlery: Lamb & Pancetta Ragu with pasta, Rendang Beef Curry over rice and one of the canteens of cool water. He passes Mycroft his pasta, while he settles down with his curry, simply looking at the stillness of the lake; its clear waters reflecting their lush surroundings and the mountains on the other side. He can hear birdsong and see dragonflies dart to and fro near the edge of the waters, weaving in and out of the long grasses. Oddly enough – it is this idyllic setting that makes him question his reality. Did he actually press the trigger at Sherrinford, and this is the afterlife? Or is he going to wake up and find this all a dream? 

“I wonder the same sometimes.” Mycroft admits. “Yet – all this, it’s even too absurd for a dream. I never dreamed that I would find my soulmate, Sherlock –”

“But, My – it’s because you’ve always been working. Fretting over me. I don’t think – you’ve had much time for yourself.”

“No. I haven’t.” Mycroft looks at him, thoughtful.

“You… haven’t had time to figure out things… pertaining to yourself.” Sherlock reflects. 

“Perhaps.” 

“Anthea told me you were a workaholic. Even though you are entitled to time off. Weekends. Holidays. Vacations. And even then, you work.” 

“Oh? What other sordid secrets did she spill?” Mycroft quirks an eyebrow. 

Sherlock only smiles. “That’s between ourselves., brother dear.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, as Sherlock savours his bites of curry. 

Sherlock then has a thought. A horrific one. 

“I think Mummy made her wedding dossier with the assumption that we were to be taking wives. I hope she doesn’t start sending me pictures of dresses or something…”

“Even I think she wouldn’t be that insane.” Mycroft then looks at Sherlock – who is now lounging casually on the mat now – the sweat from the heat pulling down at his curls – making them look longer. 

“Ah, stop it, Mycroft.” Sherlock complains a few seconds later. 

“Stop what?” Mycroft is the picture of innocence.

“I can almost feel the fine material of the dress and veil you are imagining me in.”

Mycroft laughs. And laughs. Ah. Little brother would look adorable in anything. Wedding dresses included. A true blushing bride. 

“Good god. That’s why Mummy has been sending me the pictures rather than you. She thinks I am the lady of the relationship…” 

The deductions only get worse.

“Now, now – Lock – you said that, not I.” Mycroft is almost breathless in mirth. God, he hasn’t laughed so hard in years. 

“Well, I am glad that somebody is getting some joy out of this.” Sherlock mutters at his brother who is in great danger of dying of laughter. 

But, what a sight it is to see Mycroft laugh so unrestrainedly! Sherlock doesn’t think he’s ever seen his brother so carefree. Happy. So far away from his ‘minor government official’ role. 

“Oh, Sherlock –” Mycroft is now next to him, his breath hot against his ear even with the muggy weather. “I know that you are not a blushing maiden. You are my brave man. My knight. If it wasn’t for you, neither of us would be here right now.” 

Sherlock knows that Mycroft is referring to Sherrinford. But he doesn’t feel like a knight. He had only been doing what he had to do. Pointing the gun at Mycroft had been the hardest thing he had to do; his nerve endings had all been screaming at him to move the gun away. Directing the muzzle of the gun to himself had been easier in retrospect. 

So much so. 

“I did what I had to do.” Sherlock whispers.

“I know, dear one.” Mycroft kisses his forehead. “But, that of itself – takes great courage.”

“I feel like I squandered a big chunk of my adult life, big brother – while you were out there, doing what had to be done.” Sherlock admits. “You never had the privilege…”

“Brother mine.” Another kiss. “It’s no more than what most would do for the ones they lo – care about. And take it as life experience, Sherlock. Everyone forges their own path.” 

Sherlock swallows awkwardly. He turns away – feeling raw. His brother had almost said ‘love’. A simple word. A potent word. And the empathy. He didn’t expect that. He knows big brother had been sorely disappointed in him during his young adulthood, and even recently. 

Mycroft’s hand rests upon his shoulder, and he shivers when the hand slides slowly down his back. 

Suddenly, the humidity and everything else seems too much, and he abruptly stands up and says. “I am going to go for a dip.” 

***

What is wrong with him?! 

Mycroft sighs as he watches Lock stand up from the mat – grabbing his swimming trunks from the basket. He had almost said it. Love. Not directly, but Sherlock can easily put together the pieces. It’s too much for his brother. 

It’s too soon. 

Sherlock goes down to the edge of the lake, where he quickly strips himself off his sweat-logged clothes – revealing his lean (beautiful) form. Despite what little brother thinks of his marks, time had worn away at his scars – leaving them as faint intriguing impressions on his alabaster skin. 

A man of adventure. One who has lived and (died) for the ones he cared about. They add, rather subtract from his physical attractiveness. And if one knew the story of the stars writ upon his flesh, then one would understand the depth of character, sacrifice and valour hidden within his brother; even the god Odin himself would pick him as one of his  _ einherjar _ to feast and perform great feats in Valhalla had sister dear not intervened in the final game. 

Mycroft shudders at the fanciful thought – no, Lock is alive. Lock is his soulmate. 

Just as Sherlock slides on his shark-patterned trunks, Mycroft catches sight of those two pert buttocks. How such a lean man could have such a generous bottom would always be a mystery to him. But he certainly will not complain about the view. 

And then there is a splash as little brother leaps into the waters and doesn’t emerge until almost a minute later – spluttering. Evidently not expecting the edges of the lake to be so steep. Ah. But that is little brother in a nutshell. Leaping first and asking questions later. Sherlock recovers his equilibrium and swims out into the open. 

Perhaps he should go after his brother. 

Mycroft places their unfinished food containers back into the basket, takes a deep draught of water from the canteen and fishes out his own trunks from the basket. After a moment of thought – he takes out the bottle of sunscreen. Damn, Lock had forgotten, clearly. About how easily pale Holmesian skin burns in the open summer sun. 

But then again, when was the last time either of them had ever frolicked like this out in the open? In the sun?

He hastily changes, slathering on copious amounts of sunscreen before ensuring that the basket was hidden carefully amongst the trees – out of view from the other tourists strolling about on the main trail. Striding to the shore, Mycroft slips into the refreshingly cool waters. 

***

Sherlock yelps when two strong arms encircle his torso. He had been paddling leisurely away in the lake, trying to fill his brain with tranquil naturistic imagery to push away his newfound stresses in life. 

Instead of the normal urge to fight back, he finds himself lax in the arms of his captor. It’s Mycroft. He doesn’t have to turn around to know. There is something about touch that this soulbond had changed. Every time they touch – skin against skin – the sensation is indescribable. It makes him want to melt into Mycroft; burrow himself in so deep that there is no degree of separation between his brother and himself. They could probably never have an argument ever again – all one of them had to do was touch the other and that would probably be the end of that. 

But then again, would it always be this intense? 

He can feel his brother’s gaze upon him. So fond. Adoring. His fingers gently stroking through Sherlock’s waterlogged curls, while his legs tread water – keeping them both afloat. 

“Don’t worry about the future, Lock.” Mycroft whispers minutes later.

“This is coming from you?” Sherlock turns to look at him, breaking free from the spell of touch. 

“Everyone’s soulbond is different. I know you are thinking of the case of Mrs. Hudson.”

“It… didn’t last.” Sherlock murmurs. 

Fuck. Why did he even freak out about Mycroft saying the word ‘love’? Now he’s fretting about not having this last. “It was all romance and nighttime strolls to the beach, and then –” He swallows. Domestic abuse. Mrs. Hudson had not been in a good place when Sherlock had met her in Miami all those years ago. 

“And then it wasn’t.” Mycroft finishes for him. 

“Yeah.” 

“I would never, little brother.” Mycroft gently presses a kiss against Sherlock’s cheek. “I would sooner off myself than hurt you, dear one.”

“I know.” Sherlock lets Mycroft embrace him again. He rests his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. “But… will it change?” 

“From what I understand, little brother – is that yes – things change in a soulbond. It’s meant to propel two people together. Give them a chance to learn and –” Mycroft pauses here a little awkwardly. 

“Love. It’s fine, Mycroft. I am not going to run away everytime you say it.” 

“And then when two people are consummated, it’s up to us to maintain it. Build our own paradise, if you will. The soulbond gives as much as we ourselves are willing to give, if that makes sense.” 

“I think so.” Sherlock nods. He looks at his uncovered soulmark, the letters shimmering in the sunlight. Somehow, he doesn’t think the dragons will let them down. He strokes the letters, but they remain stubbornly inert. He then says carefully, disbelieving that such words are coming out of his mouth. “It’s fine. You know. To love me.” 

“I know. I just… didn’t want to add onto Mummy’s mess. Or to make you feel obligated. I care about you dearly, brother mine. I never –”

“I want to build a paradise with you, Mycroft. I am sure everything else would come along with it. Give me time, brother, to learn how to love.” Sherlock buries his face against Mycroft’s shoulder – just smelling him. He then adds cheekily. “We should just elope if Mummy keeps this up. What do you think of Taipei at this time of the year? Or we could go to one of the coastal towns.”

“We will never be able to step foot in England ever again.” Mycroft murmurs, feeling touched by Sherlock’s words. “Hell hath no fury like a Mummy deprived of her heart’s desire. But we could go there for a honeymoon…” 

“Mm… that sounds nice.” Sherlock looks up at Mycroft – his eyes sparkling with delight before he leans in to snog him. 

Neither of them are putting their foot down about Mummy. From experience, Sherlock knows its best to head her off early, but it seems like there is some sort of a wedding that will happen. But if one had to happen, he wants to be in love with Mycroft as much as he is in love with him. It’s only fair that way. And, he will plan the sodding affair. 

He still has inspiration boards made back from John’s wedding. Waste not, want not. 

Gods, they are doing this all out of bloody order. It’s a good thing neither of them could get pregnant, or they would probably start off with that… but then Mary had her bun in the oven before her own marriage, and Mycroft had been conceived out of wedlock. It would only be par for the course. And who would be the one carrying the baby? Best not think about that. If that conversation about dresses earlier was any indication to go by. Good god, was Sherrinford a portal to another world? 

His own Wonderland? 

An inane sort of giggle escapes from him, forcing him to break their kiss. 

“What’s so funny?” Mycroft looks bemused. 

God. Big brother looks so handsome like this. Water droplets coursing down his skin – all just looking so delectable. Instead of answering, he leans over and licks, following a rivulet – not even minding the taste of the sunscreen. 

“Lock?” Mycroft sighs when Sherlock presses kisses against his neck and throat. 

“Was just thinking how weird the world is. Mm…” Sherlock lets his fingers stroke down Mycroft’s chest. “I just want to devour you, My.” He nips at a particularly tender spot – and Mycroft gasps. 

“God, Sherlock – there’s people around.” Mycroft looks around, sounding rather desperate.

“So?” Sherlock lets his lips ghost across Mycroft’s clavicle, lapping at the liquid that had pooled at his suprasternal notch. “No one will notice a thing.” There is an impish grin on little brother’s face, as his devilish hands stroke down Mycroft’s chest. 

“You should really go back and put on some sunscreen, little brother.” Mycroft tries rather weakly. 

“Boring.” Sherlock dismisses with an artless toss of his head. “Mm, what have we here?” His fingers slips down to Mycroft’s trunks, his palm giving his nether regions a fond pat. Mycroft bites back a moan – feeling a rush of blood go downward, and the grin on Sherlock’s lips only gets bigger. 

“Brother.” Mycroft sighs.

“If you really don’t want to, I will stop.” Sherlock removes his hand from Mycroft’s privates immediately, and Mycroft simply shakes his head. He does so hate to disappoint his Lock. Especially when Sherlock had just discovered sex, and how wonderful it could be with another person. Mycroft leans forward and brushes his lips against Lock’s, letting his own hand copy what Sherlock had just done. 

“Brother…” Sherlock sighs when big brother’s hand strokes down to his own needy cock. “Don’t let guilt drive your decisions. I am a big boy.” 

“No, it’s just –” Mycroft pauses. “I don’t want to be your boring brother. Lock.” 

“You aren’t boring, Mycroft. Not by a long shot.” Sherlock lets his forehead touch Mycroft’s. 

The affectionate look on Sherlock’s face is everything Mycroft had ever dreamed of. Before Sherrinford. Before all this insanity. His brother purrs when Mycroft reaches outward to touch his cheek, looking completely relaxed. It feels like magic, being surrounded by such wild surroundings and his Lock – looking like a naiad in these picture-perfect waters. What is he waiting for? Mycroft wonders – Sherlock wants him in this way, and who is he to deny it? A little risqué public sex. He slips his hand into Sherlock’s trunks, and his brother shudders when he takes the prick in hand, carefully stroking – remembering the intricacies of the movements that Sherlock had used yesterday to bring them both to completion. 

“God. Feels so good.” Sherlock murmurs, dipping his hand down to reach for Mycroft’s. 

Mycroft feels his cock escape the confines of the trunks, and Sherlock mimics his strokes. Damn. There’s something to be said about outdoor sex. Or perhaps it’s because he’s with Lock and any sex with his dearest would feel amazing. Their lips meet – this time with a clash of urgency that had been missing in the earlier minutes. Sherlock’s free hand brings him closer, and Mycroft kisses with a desperation he had never known. A need to show Sherlock how much he means to him. 

“Mycroft, more.” Sherlock pants, his respirations becoming more laboured. 

He increases the rate of his strokes, focusing more on the head of Sherlock’s cock. His brother’s hand speeds up accordingly. It is Sherlock who cums first – with his lips forming a tantalizing ‘o’; his features slack with pleasure. And, Mycroft sighs when he spills – wrapping both his arms tightly around Sherlock. His brother buries his head against Mycroft’s neck – evidently craving the post-coital physical contact as much as Mycroft did.

“We fertilized the water like fish.” Sherlock mumbles – practically giggling against Mycroft’s neck – sending comfortable vibrations throughout his body. 

Absurd. Mycroft has to smile at Sherlock’s silly observation. If merpeople and sirens started appearing in the lake a year from now, that could be a cause for concern. Mummy would be delighted at the prospect of grandchildren. Part-fish or not. He slides a hand into his brother’s ever-so-enticing curls and bestows a tender kiss over the top of his head. Such bliss. Happiness. Such foreign feelings. Closing his eyes, Mycroft hopes fervently that this all could last. 


End file.
